Mercy

I woke up in a cold sweat at three in the morning convinced I’d forgotten what Miley Cyrus looked like topless. Not asleep-panic, full awake-panic—I had to reach for my phone immediately and scroll through the folder just to remember, to calm down, to prove it hadn’t slipped away. Twenty minutes of scrolling before I could sleep again. I know how this reads. I know.

Then she posted a new topless photo on Twitter. Hands covering what matters, technically, but enough. This is the Miley I actually want—the one who doesn’t care, who just exists in her own body without performing or apologizing for it.

She used to be that way. Before the endless image cycles, before she decided to sand herself down into something safe and responsible. Before she started treating her sexuality like something to apologize for. This new photo feels like maybe she’s remembering who she is underneath all that manufactured self-editing.

I saved it to the folder with all the others and spent a while scrolling through better times. The versions of her that seemed to actually want to exist the way she was, not the way she thought she should be. There’s something in that freedom that doesn’t come back once you’ve decided it’s embarrassing.

If there’s any justice, this is the start of her remembering. Not just posing topless for a photo, but actually, completely free. The kind of free where you’re not thinking about how you look anymore, where your body is just something you have, not something you’re managing. It probably won’t happen, but you think it anyway.

In the fantasy version, she figures it out completely, sheds everything, and we all end up dancing naked through the streets to Wrecking Ball for no reason at all. It’s stupid and it won’t happen, but I’m allowed to think it.