the back of my throat, that little tickle like i'm about to cry but it's not sadness, it's just… something loosening. maybe all those years of holding everything in left a residue and now it's finally dissolving. like the warm lemon water, only inside. The body keeps the score, they say. But it also keeps the map. I can trace the old pathways of tension, the places where I braced myself against the storm. Now, each exhale is a small act of cartography, redrawing the lines of my inner world.