01 | Before you had a word for it, your body probably did. Can you remember the first time you adjusted yourself for a room — pulled in your voice, watched where your eyes went, changed how you sat?
02 | How tired were you by the end of certain days? Not regular tired. The Christmas-with-family tired. The straight-wedding tired. The work-do tired. The tired that comes from watching yourself all evening — your laugh, your hands, whether anyone could tell. Was there anywhere — a room, a person, a journey home — where you could finally stop?
03 | Did you ever find yourself disproportionately furious about something small — the wrong food at a table, someone running late, the wrong tone?
04 | If you came out, what didn't change? If you didn't, or only partly did — what does the daily work of holding the line look like, day to day? Where in your body does that work get done?
05 | Has your body told you something — through pain, tension, illness, a thing that won't shift — that you only later understood was about everything else? Where does it sit? The jaw, the shoulders, the gut, the chest, the lower back?
06 | Was there an ease between men — an arm round the shoulder, a hug that lasted, a hand on the back — that you watched and felt locked out of? What kind of touch wasn't on offer to you, or wasn't safe to want?
07 | What did you tell yourself you'd be okay once you had? When I lose the weight. When I earn enough. When I get the title. When I meet the right man. You got one — did it actually do what it was meant to do? Or did the next thing show up?