"www.ifeelmyself.com is not a website," the text read. "It is an address you return to. There is no bookmark. You have to type it in every time. Goodbye, Elara."
For ten minutes, the website guided her. Not to arousal in the pornographic sense, but to a raw, terrifying intimacy with her own skin. It asked her to close her eyes and feel the weight of her own breasts. To press her palm against her belly and feel the ebb and flow of her breath. To run her fingers through her hair without styling it, just feeling the roots tug. www.ifeelmyself.com
"Touch your collarbone. Don't pose. Just feel." You have to type it in every time
Then, a voice. It was her own, but softer, the voice she used only in the shower. It asked her to close her eyes and
Elara laughed. A virus. Definitely a virus. But her finger, traitorous and tired, clicked "Allow."
By minute eight, she was crying. Not sad tears. Recognition tears.
The browser crashed. The history was empty.