Revelation: The Cost of Connection

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I am Feral AF. That’s the headline from my weekend.

Not in the “rabid raccoon” way (though, let’s be honest, sometimes close). Feral as in I do what I want, when I want. I curl into the center of my new bed like a queen in her lair, nestled in a tangle of blankets and pillows, answering to no one. I don’t check in, I don’t ask permission, and I don’t negotiate my comfort. That independence feels like an ancient defense mechanism — one that flexes when I people too intimately.

Enter the man.

The paramour.

The two-weekend-a-month subscription that shows up with a smile and a suitcase — and without fail, he infiltrates the fortress I’ve built around myself.