She lived as though half-veiled.
A garden grown within, heavy with bloom, but hidden under shade. Roses curled against her ribs, chrysanthemums layered themselves across her shoulders, and secret petals opened in silence when no one was looking.
To the world, her face was still stone, carved and unreadable. They thought her aloof, untouchable. Yet this was her shield—an unmoving mask forged not from pride, but from trembling. Behind it, her heart fluttered like a moth caught in glass.
She knew she was beautiful. She had seen it in mirrors, in the way eyes lingered, in whispers that clung to her when she walked. And still, her own gaze turned critical. Every petal she grew, she examined too closely. Was it flawed? Too soft? Too strange to be loved?
She longed for closeness—for someone to step gently into the garden of her being. But the fear of judgment, of careless hands crushing delicate stems, kept her silent. She watered her blossoms in secrecy, let their fragrance fill only her own lungs.
Those who passed by mistook her quiet for disdain. They did not know that every guarded glance, every still expression, was her way of holding back floods of vulnerability. They saw marble where there was trembling earth. They saw distance where there was a heart desperate to be touched.
And so her blessings remained plentiful, but hidden. A secret kingdom of abundance, pressing against the seams of her body, yearning for release. She carried within her a beauty unlike any other—a beauty not yet shared, not yet trusted with the world.
Story and art by Damian Smith
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