My name is Eva. Every morning I wake to my own breath, deep and warm, as if someone is already kissing my neck. Dark hair spills across the pillow, skin still glowing with heat. I slowly run my palm over my breasts, stomach, hips — greeting myself anew. In the mirror opposite: a woman with storm-sky eyes and lips made for long kisses and whispered confessions. I smile at my reflection and whisper: “Hello, my beautiful.” That’s our ritual.

My studio is my temple. Huge windows, wooden floor, mirrors wall-to-wall. I strip to a thin black bodysuit that cuts between my legs and carves every curve. Music swells. I drop to my knees, arch until my hair sweeps the floor, rise again, hands sliding over neck, breasts, stomach, thighs. Sweat traces my spine. In the mirror stands a goddess who never asks permission to be sexual. She simply exists

I am Eva. I refuse shame around desire or being desired. I dance to feel the pulse of life. I paint so my depth doesn’t swallow me whole. I love being beautiful, sexual, untamed. Every sway, every line, every breath is a love letter to myself. And I will keep writing it — fiercely, endlessly — until my final brushstroke and the last roll of my hips in an empty studio.

I rise and walk barefoot across the warm wooden floor. My silk robe grazes my nipples; I leave the belt loose on purpose — I love feeling naked even under fabric. I turn on music: a low beat throbs straight into my womb. I start moving, slow like a snake. Hips trace figure-eights, back arches, arms float overhead. I dance only for me, but I know: if anyone watched right now, they would forget how to breathe.

At night I paint. Naked, sprawled among tubes and brushes. Body streaked with ochre and ultramarine. The brush moves like my fingers did moments ago across my own skin. I paint myself: crimson mouth, black eyes, breasts made for endless kisses. My inner world is too vast for words, so I pour it out in strokes, moans, and the slow roll of hips to music only I can hear.