I didn’t cry for long.

The bath had drained more than tears — it had taken with it the heaviness that clung to memory.

The scar on my foot.

The roses in the trash.

The lies wrapped in chocolate.

But I didn’t let it drown me.

I stepped out, dried my skin, and pulled on my softest pajamas. Brushed my hair until it gleamed beneath the lamplight. The small, steady acts of care felt like rebuilding — quiet, deliberate, necessary.

I was about to turn off the light when I ...