Annovead Untamed

There was a silence in her spirit.

Not peace —

but pause.

The kind that comes when you forget your own name in a room full of noise.

Annovead stood before the mirror,

not to admire,

but to remember.

Her closet whispered safety —

shades of “blend in,”

textures of “be good.”

But something rebelled within her —

a pulse, a flicker, a quiet no more.

She reached for the piece she had once deemed too much:

a fitted skirt, cut to trace her strength,

stitched with intention,

balanced between softness and steel.

She didn’t know why.

Only that she needed to feel her shape again —

not for them, but for herself.

To feel the outline of her becoming.

As the fabric met skin,

something uncurled.

She stood taller.

Not because the garment demanded it,

but because her soul did.

She walked outside,

the world unchanged —

same traffic, same tempo, same strangers.

But in her?

A rearrangement.

A recalibration.

A quiet war won beneath the ribs.

She passed her reflection in a window.

And for the first time in a long time,

she did not look away.

She met her own gaze

and offered no apology.