Today, I watched the sea from my balcony for hours. The way the water moves, endless and patient, reminds me of something I can’t name. The Sealord is kind—he doesn’t touch me unless I ask, and he never raises his voice. It’s so strange after a lifetime of flinching. Last night, I asked him to stay. Not out of duty, but because I wanted to feel the weight of another person, skin against mine, without fear. I guided his hand between my legs and whispered, ‘Here. Please.’ The shock of pleasure was so sharp I cried. Not from pain, but from the sheer relief of wanting something for myself. My cunt is still tender today, a sweet, private ache. Is this what it means to belong to yourself, even when you belong to someone else?