You keep telling yourself you’re just curious, but it stays in your mind longer than it should
Maybe you’ve searched at night. Maybe someone mentioned it casually, and you didn’t forget. It lingers. Not as pressure. Just a whisper. You notice your forehead more. You lift your brows and wonder if they always creased that much. You’re not chasing youth. Just quiet. Just softness. Just ease.
You notice your forehead more
You tilt your face toward light in the mirror. Try different angles. Try not to care. You do it anyway. You’re not bothered. But something has changed. Not on your face—inside it. There’s tension in places you didn’t place it. It got there on its own.
There’s tension in places you didn’t place it
You book the appointment with no ceremony. Just a call. A name. A date. The receptionist doesn’t ask why. That feels good. You don’t want to explain. You just want to try. The idea feels less cosmetic than it used to. It feels like relief.
The idea feels less cosmetic than it used to
You fill out forms in a clean, quiet waiting room. You circle “forehead.” “Glabella.” You wonder if people ever say “I just want to stop clenching when I’m not angry.” You think about how often your expression has said something you never meant.
Your expression has said something you never meant
The consultation doesn’t feel like sales. It feels like someone looking at your face with curiosity. Not judgment. Not plans. Just possibility. They ask what you’ve noticed. You say “I look tired when I’m not.” They nod like they’ve heard that before.
I look tired when I’m not
They ask you to frown. Raise your brows. Smile. You didn’t know how much your face moves until you’re asked to watch it. They explain the injections. The placement. The amount. But not in detail. They just make you feel like this isn’t a big deal.
You didn’t know how much your face moves
The injections are quick. A prick. A pause. Then done. Five spots. Maybe six. It’s over before your nerves catch up. You sit there, surprised it wasn’t more dramatic. But it never claimed to be. It’s subtle by design.
It’s over before your nerves catch up
You walk out looking the same. Maybe a tiny red dot. Nothing anyone would notice. You check anyway. You want something to feel different. It doesn’t. Not yet. They told you that. You just hoped.
You want something to feel different
Days pass. You forget about it. Then suddenly, you remember. In the middle of a conversation, your forehead doesn’t scrunch. It just stays calm. You still move. Just less. Just enough.
Your forehead doesn’t scrunch
No one says “You got Botox,” but they say you look calm. Less tired. More present. You smile and say thank you. You don’t explain. Because it’s not their business. It’s your face. It’s your quiet.
It’s your face. It’s your quiet
You look in the mirror differently now. Not searching. Not checking. Just noticing. There’s a lightness. Not in appearance—in effort. Your face isn’t working so hard.
Your face isn’t working so hard
You think about going back. Not because you’re hooked. But because you remember how good it felt to not think about your forehead all day.
You remember how good it felt
You’re still you. Every line is still yours. Just softened. Just muted. Like someone turned down the noise. But didn’t touch the meaning.