I stood in the middle of the grain aisle, my fingers tracing the crinkled plastic of a bag of basmati rice. I felt heavy, like the air in the room was slightly too thick for my lungs. My sweater was pilling at the elbows. I kept pulling the sleeves down to hide my wrists, a small, repetitive motion of disappearance. Then, at the far end of the aisle, she appeared. She wasn't shopping with a list or a sense of urgency. She was simply reaching for a jar on the top shelf. She was defined by a silhouette that felt matte and silent, a form built of clean, purposeful lines rather than excess. As she reached up, the fabric moved with her, a fluid, anatomical shift that looked choreographed. It didn't hike up or bunch at the waist. It stayed with her. Protecting her silhouette even in that mundane, reaching stretch. A woman with a double stroller pushed past, nearly clipping her heels. She didn't jump. She didn't offer a frantic, reflexive apology. She simply stepped to the side, one single, grounded movement, and continued reading the label in her hand. She looked like the only person in the store who wasn't reacting to the noise...

Some stories are only finished when worn.