The Hour I Belonged Only to Myself

The city hums three floors down, a low tide of headlights and rain, but up here the air is still and belongs to no one. I let the lace settle against my skin like a quiet promise I made to myself after years of making promises for others. The light falls warm across the sheets, gold on my collarbone, and for once I am not performing warmth—I am simply holding it.
I used to think solitude was a wound that no one else would fill. Now I know it is a room I build with my own two hands: walls of silence, windows of choice, a bed that asks nothing of me but to rest. He could be anywhere in this city, loving someone, forgetting me, and still the woman reclining here would not shrink. My worth was never a question he answered; it is a fact I keep, lace by lace.
So I smile—not for him, not for the lens, but for the girl who once apologized for taking up space. Tonight she takes all of it. The softness is mine. The heat is mine. And when I finally drift off, I do so unclaimed, complete, and utterly free.

Editor: Soloist