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Toronto hadn’t changed overnight, but Coach and Wells had.
They dress for daylight with the same care they dressed for night—quieter, heavier, more honest.
Coach moves first. Black winter boots planted with purpose. Tight black jeans cinched by a belt whose buckle carries weight beyond function. A black long sleeved short follows. Over it, a glossy black vinyl puffer that broadens him and catches the light when he shifts. The black baseball cap goes on last, backward, familiar, final.
Wells dresses after. Black winter boots, scuffed and lived in. Light blue jeans tight through the thighs. A navy University of Toronto hoodie—worn soft, earned. Gold baseball cap backward, lighter than Coach’s but aligned. Then the gold puffer jacket, bright against winter gray.
Coach glances once.
“You dressed like you belong here.”
Wells lifts his chin. “I do.”
That’s enough.
They take the streetcar south because Wells insists—and because Coach lets him.
Coach stands, wide stance, one hand wrapped around the pole. Wells stays close, shoulder brushing Coach’s arm when the tracks curve. He doesn’t apologize. He lets the movement happen and steadies where he’s allowed to.
Toronto slides past in winter layers: salt-streaked sidewalks, bundled cyclists, steam curling from coffee cups. The streetcar bell cuts through it, sharp, familiar.
Coach taps Wells’ elbow once. Time to get off. Wells moves immediately.
At Harbour Square Park, the wind off Lake Ontario bites clean. Ferries idle at the terminal. The Toronto Islands sit across the water like a promise deferred.
Wells goes straight to the railing.
“Those are the Islands,” he says. “In summer you take the ferry over—Hanlan’s Point.”
Coach follows the line of his finger.
Wells smirks, local and casual. “It’s popular with the gay community. Nude beach too. Or… close enough.”
Coach raises a brow. “You telling me that for information, or permission?”
Wells laughs once, then corrects himself. “Information. Maybe future planning.”
Coach steps just behind him, blocking the wind without comment, like it’s automatic. “Summer,” he says. “Put it on the list.”
Wells glances back. “Bold.”
“Beach tells more truth than bars,” Coach replies.
Wells exhales, fogging the air. “Yeah. Less leather. More honesty.”
Coach’s gaze stays steady. “Clothes or no clothes, I read people better in daylight.”
Wells looks away toward the ferry docks like he’s filing that away for later.
They head north to the University of Toronto. Stone buildings hold the cold. When Varsity Stadium comes into view, Wells slows like his body recognizes it before his mind does.
“That track,” he says.
They walk it together. Snow pushed to the edges. Wells’ stride sharpens—instinctive, practiced.
“First place I learned how to listen to my body,” Wells says. “Also the first place I learned how to ignore it.”
“Coaches,” Coach says.
“Yeah,” Wells answers. Then, quieter, “And me.”
They walk the curve. Wells unconsciously matches Coach’s longer stride, corrects himself once, then lets it stand.
Coach notices. Doesn’t comment. Approval doesn’t always need words.
“You kept discipline,” Coach says. “Lost the noise.”
Wells exhales. “Permission helps.”
Coach’s gaze holds. “I don’t offer what isn’t earned.”
Wells nods, accepting the terms without argument.
They drift west into the Annex. Bookstores, cafés, old houses pressing close like they’ve seen a thousand versions of the same story.
Wells leads Coach into a bookstore on Harbord. Warm air. Paper. Coffee.
“This part’s for my head,” Wells says. “I read to widen my angles.”
Coach watches him move through shelves with athlete focus systems, selection, restraint. Wells hands him a book.
“You’d like this.”
Coach thumbs the pages. “You’re learning how I choose.”
Wells smirks. “Trying to keep up.”
“You are,” Coach says, and the compliment lands because it isn’t sweetened.
Wells pays at the counter before Coach can argue. Coach lets him. Sometimes authority is allowing. They head towards the Village.
Daylight Church Street is honest, rainbow crosswalk scuffed by winter, people moving without pretense.
They stop at Second Cup, Coach gets them coffees.
Coach sits facing the street. Wells angles inward, knee brushing Coach’s boot. He leaves it there.
Men pass and read them correctly. A leather jacket nods at Coach. Coach nods back. Wells gets a softer smile from someone curious, returns it briefly, then looks back to Coach.
“You okay being seen with me like this?” Wells asks quietly.
Coach doesn’t blink. “If I wasn’t, you’d be standing.”
Wells absorbs it. That line lands because it’s true—and because Coach doesn’t say it to impress anyone. They head back out to Church Street.
A leather-jacketed guy nods at Coach. Coach nods back. Hierarchy acknowledged.
A man smiles at Wells. Wells returns it briefly, then looks back to Coach. Choice made.
“You’re visible here,” Coach says.
Wells shrugs. “So are you.”
“Different reasons.”
Wells nods. “Different rules.”
A pup walks past with his handler. Wells’ eyes follow for a heartbeat.
“Curious,” Coach says, calm.
“Observant,” Wells corrects. “I know my place.”
Coach looks at Wells. “Say that again.”
Wells’ voice drops. “I know my place.”
Coach nods once. That’s enough.
They end the day in the Distillery District, brick and iron holding the late-afternoon light. The air smells like yeast and cold stone.
At Mill St. Brew Pub, they sit with heavy beers and solid food. Wells orders for himself. Coach asks what he should drink.
“Maybe something Dark,” Wells says. “You like things that take their time.”
Coach smirks. “You learning how I think?”
“I’m learning how you choose.”
They eat without rushing. The city settles around them.
“You showed me what you wanted me to see,” Coach says as they finish.
Wells meets his eyes. “And?”
Coach leans back, relaxed, certain. “You did well.”
That lands exactly where it’s meant to.
They leave as evening edges in, Toronto humming softer now. Not quieter, settled.
They went back to Wells’ condo as evening settled, no rush, no questions.
The night had started it. The day confirmed it.
Whatever this was, it no longer belonged only to the dark.
The condo is warm when they step in, city winter clinging to their jackets until they shake it off. Wells kicks out of his boots first, then his gold puffer and hoodie, leaving just the sweat of the day and the quiet hum of evening.
Coach drapes his vinyl puffer over the back of a chair—precise, folded once, not tossed. The flannel comes off next, his forearms caught in the last of the low light as he unbuttons it. The heavy belt buckle thunks when he sets it on the dresser, a small sound with intention behind it.
Neither speaks yet. Neither needs to. They’re past that part of the day.
Coach strips down and changes first: shiny wet-look black compression shorts, second-skin slickness catching the light, and a loose gray tank that hangs soft over chest and shoulders. Not performance. Comfort with authority.
Wells watches him for a beat before moving.
He peels off his hoodie and jeans, trades daytime softness for shine—shiny gold compression shorts, bright as signal flare, and a loose white tank that drapes over muscle without apology.
The color coding is accidental only in theory.
Gold and black at night reads differently than it does at bars.
And in the small domestic space between them, neither pretends they don’t see it.
Coach glances once. “Good.”
Wells doesn’t ask what part he meant.
They brush teeth side by side at the bathroom sink, Coach larger in the mirror, stiller, Wells smaller but brighter. Daddy in grayscale, boi in gold. There time in Toronto reflected in miniature, along with the new dynamic that had been unfolding as lines and boundaries changed.
When it’s time for lights out, Coach doesn’t offer to take the couch, after last night. He simply turns toward the bedroom and waits half a beat. Wells follows.
They slide under the covers in their shorts, tanks discarded somewhere in the dark. Both stay in the shiny compression, more erotic than athletic, more tease than training.
They lie on their sides at first, space between them, quiet, breathing steady against the cold outside glass.
“Come here,” Coach murmurs.
Wells shifts back slowly until their bodies meet, spine to chest, gold to black, warmth trading in open currency.
Coach’s arm drapes over Wells’ middle, heavy but not greedy, hand settling just below ribs. Wells’ hand comes up to rest on top of it—quiet confirmation.
No grinding. No moaning. No taking. Just contact and certainty.
“Good day,” Wells says into the pillow.
“Good boy,” Coach answers into his shoulder, low, earned, not ceremonial.
Coach’s voice is low in the quiet of the condo. “Good night, Gold.”
The word lands differently this time.
Wells doesn’t answer right away. He shifts slightly, just enough to turn his head without breaking the moment.
“Hey,” he says, softer than usual. “Is that… a nickname now?”
Coach doesn’t rush the response. He watches Wells the way he does when he’s deciding whether something is worth keeping.
Wells adds, almost sheepish, “I kinda like it. It’s… sweet.”
That gets a reaction, subtle, but real. Coach’s mouth curves faintly, not quite a smile. “Sweet isn’t the reason,” Coach says.
Wells tilts his head. “Then what is?”
Coach’s hand settles more firmly at Wells’ middle, grounding and a little possessive.
“Because you stand out,” he says. “Because you hold value. And because you don’t need to be reminded of either, but you deserve to hear it.”
Wells swallows, the weight of that sinking in deeper than he expected. “So,” he says quietly, “it stays?”
Coach leans in just enough for Wells to feel the answer before he hears it. “It stays,” Coach says. “As long as you earn it.”
Wells exhales, smiling into the dark. “Guess I’ll have to.”
Coach hums approval, satisfied. “Sleep, Gold.”
Morning light slips in slow and pale, catching the edge of the bed and the shine of black and gold where they’re tangled in sheets.
Coach shifts first, arm loosening but not leaving Wells right away.
“We’ve got to move,” he says, voice still rough with sleep. “Flight’s early.”
Wells hums, half-asleep. “You always say that like it’s optional.”
Coach exhales a quiet breath that might be a laugh. “Up, Gold.”
The word lands without ceremony this time. No pause. No emphasis. Just fact.
Wells opens his eyes.
For a second he says nothing, just lets it settle. The nickname feels different in daylight. Less charged. More… claimed.
He rolls slightly, just enough to look back at Coach. “You remembered.”
Coach meets his eyes, unbothered. “I don’t forget things I mean.”
Wells smiles into the pillow, smaller than last night but warmer.
“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”
Coach’s hand gives a brief, grounding squeeze at Wells’ side—then he sits up, already shifting back into motion and purpose.
“Coffee,” Coach adds. “Then we pack.”
Wells stretches, gold catching the light again. “Yes, Coach.”
Coach doesn’t correct him.
The name stays. Not because it was declared, but because it fits.
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The Anvil and the Spinster-Chapter 12: A Small Alliance, Born Beneath Roses
Summary
She wins the quiet ones first.
A garden. A walk. A choice.
And suddenly—
Summerhall starts choosing her back.
Warnings
soft politics
slow burn (it’s simmering 👀)
found family beginnings
emotional tension > action
“he watches / she builds” dynamic
Morning came softer the next day.
Not with brilliance — but with a pale wash of gold across the eastern windows, as though Summerhall had chosen restraint.
Emma woke before the bells.
Maekar still slept beside her, though lightly — he always slept lightly. One arm rested over the coverlet, the other near enough her waist that she felt its warmth even without touch. In sleep, the severity of him eased. The lines at his brow softened. The weight he carried seemed, for a handful of breaths, set aside.
She allowed herself a moment simply to watch him.
Then she rose.
The dragon pendant lay cool against her skin when she stood; she fastened it before calling for her maid. She chose a gown less severe than the day before — dove-grey with subtle red embroidery at the cuffs. Summerhall did not need to be announced every hour.
Today, she intended to listen.
She found Daella in the small inner garden.
The princess sat on a low stone bench beneath a climbing rosevine, hands folded too tightly in her lap. She had the pale loveliness of her house — dark hair braided simply, violet eyes thoughtful and distant. A book lay open beside her, though she was not reading.
Emma paused before stepping fully into the space.
“May I intrude?”
Daella startled slightly, then hurried to stand. “You are not intruding, Princess.”
Emma smiled gently. “If you call me that every time, we shall never speak comfortably.”
Daella hesitated. “Father says titles matter.”
“He is not wrong,” Emma said. “But we are to be family.”
The girl studied her for a moment, then sat again — cautiously. Emma joined her.
For a while, they watched the bees drift lazily between blooms.
“You like the garden,” Emma ventured.
“It is quiet,” Daella replied. “People speak less here.”
“And when they do?”
“They forget I am listening.”
There was no bitterness in it. Merely observation.
Emma glanced sideways. “And what have you heard?”
Daella’s fingers traced the edge of her book. “That I am gentle. That I am too easily frightened. That I should become a septa.”
A wry little smile ghosted across her mouth.
Emma did not laugh.
“And what do you believe?”
Daella was silent for a long time.
“I believe I see things others do not,” she said at last. “Not dreams, like Daeron. But feelings. Tensions. When Father is angrier than he shows. When Rhae is hiding worry. When Daeron drinks because he is ashamed.”
Emma’s chest tightened.
“That is not weakness,” she said softly.
Daella blinked at her, surprised.
“It is a strength of a different kind.”
The girl’s posture shifted — just slightly. As though a burden had been adjusted.
“You do not think me foolish,” she said carefully.
“I think you're observant.”
A breeze stirred the rosevine overhead, petals loosening and drifting down around them.
“Will you change Summerhall?” Daella asked.
“I hope not too much,” Emma replied. “It breathes well already.”
Daella considered that.
“I would like,” she said quietly, “to learn more about governance. Rhae prefers courtly matters. Daeron… prefers his drinks and dreams.”
“And you?”
“I prefer understanding.”
Emma smiled. “Then you shall sit beside me when petitions are heard.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “Father—”
“Will not object to his daughter learning.”
Daella hesitated only a second before nodding.
A small alliance, born beneath roses.
Later that morning, Emma sought Daeron in the training yard.
She found him not with a blade — but perched atop the low stone wall bordering the sparring grounds, a goblet in hand though it was barely past midday.
Below, squires clashed in controlled rhythm.
Above, clouds drifted slow and heavy.
“You are late,” he said without looking at her.
“I was not aware I had been summoned.”
“You were expected.”
She stepped up beside him, leaning lightly against the wall. “By whom?”
He lifted the goblet. “By curiosity.”
She reached out without warning and plucked it from his hand.
He turned sharply. “You presume much.”
She sniffed it lightly. Wine. Strong.
“It is early.”
“So?”
“So,” she replied calmly, “if you intend to drink, at least make it worth defying convention.”
For a heartbeat, indignation flared in him.
Then — unexpectedly — he laughed.
It was brighter than yesterday’s brief huff. Younger.
“You would lecture me?”
“No.”
She handed the goblet back.
“I would walk with you.”
His brows lifted. “Again?”
“Yes. Unless you fear being seen with me.”
His chin tilted. “I fear very little.”
“Prove it.”
He slid down from the wall, landing lightly.
They did not take the same ridge as the day before. Instead, Daeron led her toward the western slope, where the land dipped into a shallow valley dotted with scrub and wild grass.
“You asked about my dreams,” he said after a while.
“I did.”
“I dreamed last night.”
Emma kept her gaze ahead. “And?”
He swallowed.
“Of fire again. But not destruction.”
She waited.
“Of something… waiting.”
The wind shifted, tugging at his loose hair.
“Waiting for what?” she asked.
“For courage,” he said quietly.
She studied him then — truly studied him.
“You think it is about you.”
He did not answer.
“And perhaps it is,” she continued. “But fire does not always consume. Sometimes it forges.”
His mouth tightened slightly. “You speak in riddles.”
“No. I speak with patience.”
They reached the low stone marker at the edge of the valley. He stopped there.
“Do you fear dragons?” he asked abruptly.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have chosen to live among them.”
That drew another flicker of that reluctant smile.
He sat on the stone, elbows on his knees.
For a while, neither spoke.
Then—
A shadow moved across the ridge above them.
Emma looked up.
Maekar.
He did not approach. Did not call out. He simply stood at a distance, watching.
Not with suspicion.
With attention.
Daeron followed her gaze and stiffened slightly.
“He thinks I am fragile,” he muttered.
Emma shook her head. “He thinks you are his son.”
Below them, one of the younger squires stumbled during practice. Laughter rippled across the yard.
Daeron watched in silence.
Then, unexpectedly, he whistled sharply and called down advice — crisp, precise correction of stance and footing.
The boy below straightened immediately, adjusting.
Maekar’s head tilted almost imperceptibly.
“You see?” Emma murmured.
Daeron scowled faintly. “See what?”
“You do not only dream. You have a sharp mind.”
His jaw worked.
On the ridge, Maekar descended at last.
He did not address Emma first.
He approached Daeron.
“Your stance is still too wide,” he said without preamble.
Daeron rolled his eyes — but he shifted his feet automatically.
Maekar stepped closer, adjusting his son’s shoulder with a firm, economical touch.
“Balance,” he said. “Not force.”
There was no tenderness in the gesture.
And yet—
When Daeron obeyed, when he corrected himself without protest, Maekar’s hand lingered half a breath longer than necessary at his son’s arm.
Pride.
Quiet. Fierce.
Emma watched it unfold like something sacred.
Daeron glanced once at his father, searching.
Maekar gave the smallest nod.
Approval.
It was enough.
For a fleeting instant, Daeron’s expression softened into something almost boyish.
And Emma felt it — that delicate shift.
Not resistance.
Belonging.
Maekar turned to her then.
“You encourage him,” he said.
“I listen,” she replied.
Daeron cleared his throat, as though uncomfortable with the air growing thick between them.
“You should attend the hawking this afternoon,” he said to her abruptly. “If you mean to know Summerhall.”
She arched her brow. “Is that an invitation?”
“It is a test.”
Maekar’s mouth twitched faintly.
Emma inclined her head. “Then I accept.”
Daeron met her gaze — no longer wary.
Not entirely trusting yet.
But open.
And as the wind swept across the red hills of Summerhall, Maekar stood between wife and son — not as a barrier.
But as a bridge.
The fire, it seemed, was not only in dreams.
It was here.
Waiting.
Chapter 13
The hawking began before the sun had fully burned the mist from the hills.
Summerhall’s red stone still held the pale hush of morning when the household gathered along the western rise. Falcons shifted beneath their hoods; leather creaked; horses stamped in the cool air. The sky stretched wide and open — a clean blue waiting to be written upon.
Emma stood with her glove laced tight at her wrist.
Daeron approached carrying a sleek peregrine this time, the bird restless and powerful, talons flexing against the leather.
“You return,” he said, as though he had not quite expected her to.
“I dislike leaving a challenge unfinished,” she replied.
He studied her a moment, then nodded once.
“Good.”
Rhae appeared at her other side, already gloved, expression composed and faintly critical. “If she drops it this time, I refuse to chase it.”
“I did not drop it,” Emma said mildly.
“You wobbled.”
“That was a controlled adjustment.”
Daeron barked a short laugh.
Across the rise, Maekar watched as the falconers prepared the lures. His presence was not loud, but it anchored the gathering. When he stepped toward Emma, the air shifted subtly around them.
“You will take the merlin again,” he said.
“Am I not yet trusted with fiercer wings?”
“You are being trained,” he replied evenly. “Not tested.”
She arched her brow. “You test me constantly.”
His mouth twitched faintly. “That is different.”
He adjusted the angle of her elbow, his gloved hand closing briefly over hers.
“Do not chase the bird with your body,” he murmured. “Let it return to you.”
“I am not in the habit of chasing things that fly away.”
His eyes flicked to hers — brief heat, quickly banked.
“See that you do not.”
Rhae made a soft sound of impatience. “If you two are finished speaking in riddles—”
Daeron smirked. “They enjoy it.”
Emma smiled and lifted her arm.
The hood was removed.
The merlin leapt into the air like a released breath — swift, slicing through sunlight. It climbed higher this time before banking sharply toward the lure dragged below. The strike was clean.
Emma did not flinch.
She waited.
When the bird circled back and settled firmly onto her glove, steady and sure, she felt the small triumph deep in her bones.
Daeron gave an approving nod.
“Better.”
Rhae folded her arms. “Acceptable.”
Maekar stepped close enough that his shoulder brushed hers.
“Well done,” he said quietly.
It was not merely about the bird.
She felt it.
Daeron launched his peregrine next. The bird soared higher than the merlin had, wings cutting the sky in wide arcs. For a moment, it seemed it might not return.
Daeron’s jaw tightened.
But instead of reaching for wine — as he might have before — he lifted his arm again, steadying his stance the way Maekar had shown him.
The peregrine wheeled.
Returned.
Landed.
A small breath left him.
Maekar crossed the short distance between them and clasped his son’s forearm.
“You did not rush it,” he said.
“No,” Daeron replied.
“Good.”
That was all.
But the pride in Maekar’s gaze was unmistakable.
Emma watched the exchange with quiet satisfaction.
The wind shifted, catching her skirts and carrying the scent of grass and leather and sun-warmed stone.
Summerhall did not glitter.
It endured.
And today, it soared.
By midday, the hawks were hooded once more and returned to their mews.
Emma found Maekar in the western solar reviewing accounts with his steward. He dismissed the man with a nod when she entered, though his eyes remained on the parchment until the door closed.
“You are displeased with something,” he said without looking up.
“I am considering something.”
“That tone usually precedes upheaval.”
She moved to the window, gazing down at the inner yard where squires crossed with buckets and bundles of wood.
“Summerhall functions,” she said. “But it does so unevenly.”
Now he looked at her.
“Explain.”
“The petitions come without order. The steward keeps records, but they are not cross-checked. The kitchens report to three different hands. The training schedules overlap with supply deliveries. It works because you demand it work — not because it is structured to.”
His brow furrowed slightly.
“You would reorganize my household.”
“I would strengthen it.”
Silence followed — not hostile.
Measured.
Maekar rose slowly from his chair.
“You have been here for weeks,” he said. “And you already see fault.”
“I see potential.”
He approached her, boots soundless on stone.
“My father ruled through spectacle,” he said quietly. “I rule through discipline.”
“And discipline thrives under clarity.”
His eyes searched hers.
“You would shift authority.”
“I would define it.”
“And if they resist you?”
She met his gaze without wavering. “They will not.”
“You are certain.”
“I am patient.”
A long pause.
Wind pressed lightly against the open shutters.
“You would place Daella among the clerks,” he said finally.
“Yes.”
“And Rhae?”
“In correspondence. She misses little.”
A faint flicker of amusement crossed his face. “No.”
“She will excel.”
“And Daeron?”
She stepped closer.
“With the training masters. Formal responsibility. Fewer idle hours.”
Maekar studied her as if weighing steel in his hand.
“You intend to give my children roles in governance.”
“They already have roles,” she replied softly. “I only intend to acknowledge them.”
He exhaled slowly.
“You move carefully,” he said.
“I move for Summerhall.”
His hand rose — not abrupt, not claiming — but deliberate as it settled at her waist.
“You speak as though it is yours.”
“It is ours.”
The correction lingered.
His thumb brushed the dragon pendant at her throat.
“You would reshape what I built.”
“I would stand beside you while doing it.”
The tension between them shifted — no longer challenging.
Alignment.
“You ask much,” he murmured.
“I ask to serve.”
His gaze darkened slightly at the word.
“You are my wife,” he said.
“Yes.”
“You do not need to earn ground here.”
“I am not earning it,” she replied gently. “I am tending it.”
That stilled him.
A long, steady moment passed.
Then —
“Very well,” he said.
The words were not grand.
But they carried weight.
“You may draft the changes. We review them together.”
She smiled — not triumph, but warmth.
“Together.”
His hand slid from her waist to the small of her back, drawing her closer until the space between them narrowed to breath and heat.
“You do not retreat,” he observed.
“Neither do you.”
A faint huff of amusement.
“Stubborn woman.”
“You married me.”
He leaned down, pressing a slow kiss to her mouth — not urgent, not restrained. Measured.
Claiming and conceding all at once.
When he drew back, his forehead rested briefly against hers.
Con la schiena al mondo e lo sguardo rivolto al mare, lascio che il sole disegni le curve della mia verità. La mia pelle parla con l'acqua, il mio corpo abita la roccia — e in questo silenzio, esisto, bella, fiera, intera.
Se la mia bellezza ti ha incantato, se questa visione ha risvegliato in te qualcosa di dolce o potente… sostieni la mia arte, la mia esistenza. Sono una creatura trans, baby bella, fiera e vulnerabile. Ogni gesto di generosità è una carezza al mio percorso luminoso.
Fuel my Magic
⋆.˚🦋༘⋆
With my back to the world and my gaze turned to the sea, I let the sun draw the curves of my truth. My skin speaks to the water, my body inhabits the rock - and in this silence, I exist, beautiful, proud, whole.
If my beauty has enchanted you, if this vision has awakened something sweet or powerful in you… support my art, my existence. I am a trans creature, baby beautiful, proud and vulnerable. Every gesture of generosity is a caress to my luminous path.
Fuel my Magic
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first of all, you're not weird. you’re human, and also really, really self-aware, which is honestly a sign of emotional intelligence. oversharing isn’t a character flaw, it’s just a form of vulnerability that’s maybe lacking a little bit of direction right now. and you know what? that can definitely be rewired.
but you’re right. there’s something so deliciously powerful about being unreadable. not cold. not distant. just quietly self-contained. you know, that one girl in your class who always looks like she knows more than she’s saying. being mysterious doesn’t mean suppressing your personality, it means curating what parts of you, you reveal, and when. think: allure, not silence.
so, if you’re ready to stop trauma-dumping after someone tells you they like your lip gloss... let’s get into your ✧ anti-oversharing glow-up ✧. - love youuuu
✧‧˚ 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒖𝒏𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 ✧‧˚
❥ step one: create your “public” script
sometimes we overshare because we don’t have a “go-to” version of ourselves for light conversation. so when someone gives us an opening, our brain kind of panics and goes “quick! say literally anything!” and out comes your ENTIRE 7th grade story arc.
to fix this, create a mental ‘highlight reel’ version of yourself for casual convos. i call this your “glow-up script.” these are a few cute, polished, semi-surface-level anecdotes and answers you intentionally rehearse for common situations:
✧ how’s school going? → “it’s been intense but i kind of love it. i’ve been really into productivity stuff lately.”
✧ what do you like to do? → “mostly reading & making pinterest boards like it’s my job.”
✧ how was your weekend? → “super recharging. i’ve been trying to stay offline more lately.”
this gives you a comfy, consistent personality to draw from without reaching into the emotional deep end. bonus: people will find you intriguing because you’re selective.
❥ step two: let silence stretch a little
a lot of us overshare because we feel pressure to fill silence. like, someone says something and you feel like you have to respond instantly and enthusiastically or it’s rude. but silence isn’t awkward unless you panic about it.
instead, practice the ✧ micro pause ✧.
when someone asks you a question or makes a comment, pause for two full seconds before you answer. let your eyes flick away for a beat. this one trick shifts the vibe completely. it gives you space to choose your words and makes you appear way more composed and thoughtful. think of it as conversational ballet: graceful, intentional, a little mysterious.
❥ step three: replace “omg same!” with “that’s so interesting”
oversharing often starts when we relate too hard too fast. someone mentions their cat and suddenly you’re spilling about the time yours almost got run over and how that spiraled into your fear of loss and attachment theory.
instead of instantly jumping into your version of the topic, try observing it in them.
✧ “that’s so interesting, what’s your cat like?”
✧ “wait that’s such a unique story, tell me more.”
this helps you break the reflex to center the convo on yourself. you stay warm and curious without handing over your diary.
✧‧˚ 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒖𝒃𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍 𝒔𝒐𝒇𝒕𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒖𝒑𝒅𝒂𝒕𝒆 ✧‧˚
❥ develop a ✧ private life aesthetic ✧
if you want to stop oversharing, you need to fall in love with the idea of being private. romanticize it. write diary entries no one will ever read. take photos you don’t post. go to cafes without tagging the location.
being private isn’t being lonely, it’s creating a secret world so rich and beautiful that you don’t need external validation.
❥ use a “mental filter” before you speak
before you say something personal, ask yourself:
✧ is this earned information, or am i offering it to feel accepted?
✧ would i regret this if it got repeated?
✧ is this helping the conversation or derailing it?
✧ am i sharing this for connection or out of nervousness?
if it’s not intentional, save it for later, or your journal.
❥ try“gentle deflection”
you don’t have to answer every question. if someone gets too nosy or the convo feels like it’s tilting into overshare territory, try a soft pivot.
✧ “hmm that’s a long story, maybe another day. but tell me about you!”
✧ “haha i’ve blocked that era out. what about you though?”
play it like a game. you stay in control of the narrative while still being cute & open.
✧‧˚ 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒚’𝒔 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝒕𝒊𝒑𝒔 ✧‧˚
❀ when i catch myself about to overshare, i mentally switch into ✧ editor mode ✧ like i’m revising a diary entry. i ask: “does this version of me feel like the version i want to become?” if not, i scale it back.
❀ i also keep a “burn book” journal (not for meanness, just raw thoughts) where i can word vomit everything and no one sees it. it satisfies the urge to get it out without the regret.
❀ lastly, i pretend i’m the main character of a book that’s still being written. no author spills the whole plot in chapter one. they drop breadcrumbs. a line. a glance. a sentence that makes people curious. you are the enigma. the slow-burn story. don’t give them the whole novel.
you’re not too much. you’re just overflowing with personality, and now you’re learning how to bottle it in perfume instead of spilling it like water.
and i promise... the more you stay grounded, the more you’ll see how people lean in, want to know more, wonder about you. it’s not fake. it’s just strategic softness.
your power has always been in your words.
now you’re learning how to use them, not waste them.
you’re becoming the mystery.
the “i wonder what she’s thinking” girl.
the “she smiled but didn’t say much” kind of energy. lol.
and trust me, it'll work like wonders.
always here for you,
— 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒚 ♡
glowettee hotline operator ☎︎✨
