It began the day I left the bed unmade—

sheets tangled like memory,

sunlight kissing the curve of my hip

as I sipped my coffee still remembering him.

I stopped tying my hair back.

Let it fall—wild and unbrushed,

a crown of soft defiance.

I wore silk robes that slipped off one shoulder,

wore perfume even when I stayed home,

and walked barefoot

until the soles of my feet knew every crack in the kitchen tile

like a prayer.

I started singing to the herbs as I clipped them,

whispering into the steam of boiling pasta,

licking olive oil from my fingers

without shame.

I danced while dusting.

Cried in the bathtub.

Read poetry at the stove

with one hand stirring the sauce,

the other tucked against my thigh—

And he—

he didn’t ask me to quiet.

Didn’t shame the echo in my laughter,

the bite in my voice,

or the way I come undone.

He watched me bloom with something between reverence and heat,

like a man seeing fire for the first time

and knowing not to put it out.

I am no longer obedient.

I am deliberate.

Unruly.

Ripe.

And loved,

not despite it—

but because I am.