Your Yes Wasn’t Real

She said yes to the first kiss when she wrapped her arms around them and pressed her lips forward. It stretched on, hungry and consuming, as if time itself could be swallowed.

She said yes to the first date, typing her agreement into an email, committing her evening to them. The night was wholly delightful.

She said yes to sex. They asked if she wanted to stop; she said no. They didn’t stop. And the sex was phenomenal.

She said yes to the relationship. They even negotiated its terms, line by line, in the language of fairness and care.

She said yes to the wedding. A ring slid onto her finger while friends and family clapped and cheered.

She said yes to marriage on a Saturday evening, three drinks in, just enough liquid courage to face the aisle she dreaded. She never liked eyes on her. She smiled anyway.

She said yes a thousand times more—yes to dinners, yes to trips, yes to plans and touch and compromises. But none of it mattered. Because her yes wasn’t real.

Her yes was a fawn response.
Her yes was survival.
Her yes was a desperate plea: “don’t leave me”.
Her yes was a shield against conflict, an echo faster than thought, a reflex her body never endorsed.

Her yes was solicited in the chaos of the moment, when it should have been negotiated in the calm before the storm.
Her yes was wrapped in intoxication,  too late or too soon, but never from the center of her truth.
Her yes was enthusiastic, but it wasn’t authentic. . It wasn’t real.

It wasn’t real because yes without the possibility of no is not consent.
The power of yes is only as strong as the safety of no.
And safety isn’t a word—it’s a sensation.
Sensations live in the body.
And when the body is numb, when the body is silenced, when the body is disconnected—
you cannot feel safety.
And if you cannot ground in safety, you cannot say no.
And if you cannot say no,

Then yes is not consent.