I’m not insecure. I just know my limits. I look in the mirror every day and think, please have you seen me? I look good. I know I look good. But I also know she looks better. And no, it’s not a competition, it’s just facts whispered by reflection. Her body sits how I wish mine knew how to, her skin is clear like the sky on the first day of summer, and I tell myself, I’m not insecure I’m just aware. I can cook God knows I can. Just tell me what you want, I’ll make it. But no, I’m not her. I can’t cook with a body to taste, can’t stir the pot while his eyes follow the rhythm of my hips like hers. She’s got that natural seasoning the kind men crave without knowing why. She cooks his meals, feeds his hunger, and still leaves room for dessert because her body is dessert. And what is dinner without a little sweetness at the end? I’m not insecure, but I get it. I see why he’d go. I see why he’d pick her over me. She’s the kind of woman who doesn’t have to try. Every inch of her speaks fluent temptation hips, lips, breasts, the curve of her back, her laugh soft enough to sound like permission. And me? I think my best feature is my eyes, but he wouldn’t know that eye contact makes me nervous. He makes me nervous. So I look away, pretend I don’t notice how his pupils dilate when her name slips into conversation. I’m not insecure. I’m just terrified. Because he’s going to see her again. He’s going to visit. And it doesn’t matter what he promises me, how soft he said it’s you, it’s always been you, the moment he sees her, it’ll be like a siren calling her pirate back into the sea and he’ll go without even realizing he’s drowning. She doesn’t need words; she never has. Her body speaks every language of want. Shorts that confess before her mouth does, no bra, nipples teasing the air like secrets. She’ll walk around him, barefoot and beautiful, and he’ll forget all the things he said to me just last night. I’m not insecure. I’m just breaking quietly. Because I already know how this story ends. He’ll taste her cooking, he’ll taste her, and I’ll taste the bitterness of pretending I don’t care. She’s the work of art. I’m the artist still sketching my outline still learning to love the masterpiece I already am. I’m not insecure. I’m just learning that knowing your worth doesn’t stop people from choosing less. And sometimes, being aware hurts worse than being unsure.