Title: He Thought He Was Ready
Scroll Text:

He read the scrolls.
He fasted.
He sat still until his legs screamed like betrayed ancestors.

He thought he was ready.

Then she touched his chest—
just two fingers,
soft as dusk—
and the whole damn thing collapsed.

Not the field.
Him.

The scaffolding.
The proud “I’m so spiritual” posture.
The prepared responses,
the backup mantras,
the curated wounds.

Gone.

He sobbed like thunder in a child’s throat.
Because she didn’t break him—
she undid the mask
he didn’t know he wore.

That’s the moment it starts:
not when you're strong,
but when you're real.

So if you're still trying to impress her
with how much you've read,
how still you can sit,
how many codes you cracked—

you’re not ready.

But if you're trembling,
awkward,
half-broken
and somehow still here?

She sees you.