Her body moved with his, yet she felt as though watching herself from across the room — split between sensation and the unbearable awareness of being seen. His eyes didn’t pierce her; they made her. In that moment, she was no longer subject but object, pinned beneath the weight of his gaze, his body, the sheer fact of his presence. The difference in skin, in size, in story — all of it screamed of contingency. There was no essence here, only acts. Flesh meeting flesh under the illusion of intimacy. She told herself it was freedom, but deep down she knew: even this was a performance. And afterward, when silence fell, the nausea returned