The Ferrari Has Feelings
There's a version of me the world has always known — polished, fast, self‑contained, and impossible to catch unless I choose to be caught. I've lived most of my life as the Ferrari: sleek on the outside, powerful under the hood, and fiercely independent. I learned early that if I kept the engine humming and the exterior gleaming, no one would ask what it cost to maintain it. No one would ask what it protected. Being the Ferrari became my identity. My armor. My rhythm. My safety. Men admired the shine, the speed, the thrill. They loved the ride's fantasy, not the reality of the woman inside. And I learned to give them only what they could handle — the exterior. The performance. The curated version of me that kept my heart tucked away behind steel and speed. Then someone came along who didn't just want to look at the car. He wanted to understand the engine. He wasn't dazzled by the surface. He wasn't intimidated by the horsepower. He wasn't trying to tame me,...