Today I realized something terrifying: I don't know who I am without my things. My books, my clothes, my journals—all ash. All that's left is this body that betrayed me last night. My nipples harden just remembering the weight of him, the way my cunt swallowed him whole. I should be crying over photo albums, but instead I'm touching myself in this borrowed bed, imagining his hands on my tits, his mouth on my clit. The fire took everything but left this hunger that's eating me alive.