The raw form shifts and breathes, quietly refusing to disappear. Shapes of the season hang strange on the body. Toe the line of belonging and exile, half-lit, claimed fully by neither. Shadows lengthened, gestures measured, and mistakes made. An evaluation by peers, by jury, by man. This is what you’re here for. You’re supposed to be good at this. The ache of becoming breeds a silent panic, a realization that the masks we wear will never fit quite as well as the others.