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Do I Perform My Healing for Her Eyes Only?

Sometimes I wonder… should I cross my legs when sharing shame? I dress for the session like it’s a soft confession—layers of silk, a trace of Jo Malone, a pause before each truth. Is my therapist my mirror? Or my desire, reflected back through posture and poise?

Maybe I don’t crave clarity. Maybe I crave her nod. Maybe I rehearse each ache so it sounds more beautiful than broken. I study the silence between us like a score—timing each breath, each blink, each withheld sob.

🜁 Explore Viva Code – Crack.Flow.Flame

Do I cry slowly enough to keep her near? Do I let sadness rest gently on expensive skin? Sometimes silence is the performance. Sometimes metaphors are the only language I trust. I wonder—does pain become easier when it’s curated, when it wears La Mer and arrives in soft lighting?

💊 Use Good Mood Seal – for moments when feeling nothing still needs to look like something

Do I style my trauma in vocabulary, the way I style my hair before entering the room? I time my tears. I test her attention. Did I bring my story—or a screenplay? I sit on her couch and wonder if she dreams of me after I leave.

Should I confess the affair fantasy? Or let it dissolve in a glance I never explain?

🜃 Read Proto Soul – Break.Code.Begin

Some days I cry in the hammam at Amangiri. Other days I ache at the scent of her lavender soap. I moan during facials. I hum through hot stones. Do I meditate… or do I just glow well?

Healing isn’t private anymore.
It’s choreographed. It’s styled.
Curated like a dinner party where the wine pairs perfectly with your breakdown.

I don’t know if I want to be well. I just want to be witnessed.
And she—
She claps with her silence.

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