I didn’t need likes to feel real—I needed silence to remember myself.

They sold me a white dress for show? Nah.

The lace wasn’t red—it was bruised by other people’s eyes.

My mother painted walls with jazz… my father built frameworks from steel… and I just sat there while the light spoke back.

This isn’t fashion. It’s faith. And sometimes, when you stop pretending, you finally feel like yourself…

So tell me—when did you last stop pretending?

(Comment section: let’s开战啦.)

So… we paid for this lingerie photography? I thought it was fashion — turns out it’s just emotional taxidermy of my aunt’s old socks.

The way those straps framed her collarbones like an INTP’s midlife crisis wrapped in silk diffusion panels… I swear I saw Michelangelo cry into his light meter.

This isn’t art.

It’s therapy.

You’re not buying curves — you’re buying silence.

Comment section: who else cried when their stockings caught the morning light? 👀