I’ve always told people I’m shy. Quiet. The kind of woman who avoids attention. And most of the time, that’s true. At work, I’m polite, professional, the one who blends into the background. My friends joke that I’m “the responsible one.” But what they don’t know—what nobody knows—is that there’s another side of me.
A side I don’t show.
A side that only comes out when I’m alone… when nobody’s watching.
It started years ago, in my tiny apartment right after college. I’d come home exhausted, drop my bag on the floor, and peel off my clothes before even reaching the bedroom. I told myself it was just comfort—that I liked the freedom. But over time, I realized it was more than that.
I loved the feeling of my bare skin against the cool air. I loved standing in front of the mirror, letting my hands trace places nobody else got to touch. And sometimes, when the city was quiet and the windows were open, I’d linger in the living room, wondering if anyone down below could see me. My heart would pound at the thought.
That thrill—the maybe-someone’s-watching edge—grew addictive.
I started small. A loose tank top with nothing underneath. Shorts just short enough to feel risky. Some nights, I’d step onto the balcony, holding a glass of wine, pretending I was just enjoying the view… while secretly hoping someone’s eyes would find me. I’d stand there longer than I should, feeling that dangerous heat rise inside me.
For years, I thought this made me wrong. I kept it hidden, terrified someone would find out. My family raised me to be “a good girl.” Good girls didn’t show too much. Good girls didn’t want to be seen. So I buried that side of me, locked it behind closed doors.
Then I met Eric.
He was older, quiet, the kind of man who noticed things other people didn’t. The way my fingers played with my necklace when I was nervous. The way my breathing changed when he leaned closer. One night, after a few drinks, I confessed my secret in a whisper: “I like being seen… but only when I choose it.”
I waited for him to judge me. To laugh. To pull away.
He didn’t.
Instead, he said, “Show me what you do when nobody’s watching.”
Something inside me cracked open that night. I let him in—the late-night snapshots, the balcony games, the moments when my heart raced so fast I could barely breathe. He didn’t shame me. He didn’t control me. He just… saw me.
Now, when the curtains are half-closed and the city lights glow outside, I still stand by the window sometimes, my body lit only by the streetlamps. My heart pounds the same way it did years ago—but this time, I’m not alone.
Eric’s there, watching me from the couch, his eyes dark and steady.
And for the first time in my life… I’m not afraid of being seen.