She was always the quiet one.
Not shy, exactly — just observant. The kind of girl who listened more than she spoke, and noticed everything: the way people lied with their eyes, the way they softened around beauty, the way silence made some people squirm. She didn’t mind silence. She wore it like perfume.
Growing up, she felt out of place in the world’s textures. Cotton clung too softly. Wool itched. Denim felt like armour made for someone else’s war. But one day, alone in a boutique on a rainy Wednesday, she slipped into latex. Just to see.
And the world… changed.
It wasn’t about the shine. It was about the containment. The clarity. The way it hugged her edges and held her together like no one else ever had. It felt like truth. It felt like a second skin, but smarter. Braver. Closer to the person she imagined she could be.
She started wearing it out. First in private gardens. Then at dusk. Then in daylight, unapologetically.
People stared. She didn’t mind. Let them. That was the point. Latex taught her how to exist without explanation. How to stand in softness without surrender. How to be seen — and still belong to herself.
She walks now in wild places — between trees, under blossom, across paths no one takes. Not because she wants attention, but because she wants presence. She wants to feel the sun warm the latex. She wants to hear the wind press against its surface like a second lover. She wants nature and artifice to meet in one body — hers.
She doesn’t wear latex to provoke.
She wears it to remember who she is.
And when the world asks why,
she doesn’t answer.
She just keeps walking.
