But you persist in a well-rehearsed dance. You tilt your head, offer a laugh, a soft touch to my arm, every gesture calculated as if your fingers were made to push invisible buttons. But I feel the rising heat, the flush creeping up my neck, my pulse quickening as the words you’ve planted grow too thick, too fast. I want to step back, to shake off the weight of your intentions pressing against my will. My body tenses, skin prickling with the unspoken truth: I can feel your need to control, to steer me, but I won’t let you.