Atlas

I used to hate mirrors.

In prison, the reflection never lied — it showed you every regret you tried to bury. But standing here now, in the quiet of my new room at Sterling Manor, dressed in a crisp white shirt and black jacket, I hardly recognized the man staring back.

This version of me had lines of humility where arrogance used to live. I’d spent months rebuilding from the inside out — therapy, community service, quiet mornings learning to breathe again. But today would be ...