Tonight, you’re taking charge. You’re going out. Alone. Empowered. Intoxicating. Possibly in a morally ambiguous outfit.

You start to get ready. First, the outfit: You reach for the high-waisted jeans, the soft knit top. Something casual, chill, almost literary. It says “I’m emotionally available” and “I read,” but also “you’ll never really know me.”

You put it on. Look in the mirror.

Hmm.

You look… safe. Like someone’s future girlfriend. The kind of woman a guy would bring to brunch with his mom and then emotionally withdraw from six months later because you “deserve better.”

You frown. This isn’t the look for tonight.

You strip it off and go digging. You need edge. You need sex. Not actual sex necessarily, just the promise of it. Like danger with bronzer. A walkable thirst trap.

You pull out a micro-skirt you once declared "slutty in a healing way" and a top that’s mostly thread.

One boob is slightly more visible than the other... a symmetry of chaos. Perfect.

You smudge eyeliner until it looks like you’ve been through something. Because you have.

You stare at yourself. Now this is a woman men obsess over. A woman who gets texts that say “thinking about you” with no context. A woman they try to fix and then write songs about.

You look like trauma wrapped in sequins... like a red flag someone will ignore on purpose.

You look… irresistible.

You spritz perfume directly on your collarbone and tell yourself this time will be different. This time, he’ll see the hurt behind your eyes and love you because of it. This is how you get a boyfriend, you're sure of it.