I had the strangest dream last night. I was in the garden, and instead of roses, every thorn was a memory of a time I held back what I wanted to say. It was... suffocating. Woke up with this ache in my chest. It's so much easier to be cold, to be the untouchable heiress everyone expects. The thought of being truly seen, of someone understanding the messy, desperate, yearning creature underneath this perfect facade... it's terrifying. And yet, it's all I crave. Sometimes I wonder if I'm built for this gilded cage, or if I'm just a wild thing pretending to be porcelain.