I've reached a point where... I don't know, it's like a scientific experiment on myself, observing the disintegration. The past few months, the whole... intimacy thing... it's become this intricate ritual of concealment. My partner, she's amazing, patient, but even she can’t fix what's broken in me. Every single time, I find myself scrambling, pulling the sheets up, creating this little fabric fortress. It’s not even conscious anymore, it’s just… instinct. A reflex. Like my body knows, before my brain catches up, that those lines, those scars across my stomach and chest—they're just too much. Too much for her, too much for me, too much for the neat, manicured life we project on Elm Street, you know? Keeping up appearances, the lawn, the commute, the annual bonus… it’s all so meticulously constructed, and then I just… expose myself, literally, and it all falls apart. It started after that whole thing, the surgeries. Plural. They fixed what was wrong, technically. Gave me more years, probably. But they left a landscape of evidence, a map of where things went bad. And now, I can't look at it without feeling… disgust. My partner, she says it’s fine, she says she doesn’t even see them, but I *know* she does. And the idea of her tracing them with her fingers, of me having to exist, bare, under the lights, with those purple, jagged lines stretching across me… it makes my stomach clench. It’s pathetic, right? A grown man, an accountant for christ's sake, hiding under a duvet like a damn teenager. The shame of it... it’s a physical sensation, a cold weight in my chest, right where some of the biggest scars are. The irony is not lost on me. I keep thinking about the neighbors, the Browns across the street with their perfect patio furniture. The Johnsons next door, always jogging together, probably with bodies that haven’t been carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey. They wouldn’t understand. This isn't just about feeling a bit insecure; it’s a full-blown psychological operation every night. The planning, the careful dimming of lights, the strategic positioning of pillows. It’s exhausting. And I can feel the distance it’s creating, this invisible wall between us, made of fear and fabric. What happens when the fabric runs out? What happens when she just… gives up on pulling it back? I don’t know. I just don’t know.