“Only because you’re still wearing your clothes,” the woman chuckled. “I’m Helen. The pool’s lovely this time of day. No rush.”

And for the first time in her life, Maya felt not like a curator of illusion, but like a participant in the world. Unarmored. Enough.

Maya looked into the fire. She thought about the office, the fluorescent lights, the way women compared diet tips in the break room. She thought about the dating apps where men asked for “full-body pics” like she was a cut of meat.

Maya retreated to her small cabin. She sat on the edge of the bed, running her fingers over the cotton of her t-shirt. De-armoring. She peeled off the shirt. Then the shorts. Then the underwear that had left red marks on her hips. For a long moment, she sat there, naked in the dappled light, waiting for the shame to hit.