I use my favorite body wash—something called "Sugar Cookie Dreams" that makes me smell like a bakery explodes on me in the best possible way—and take my time with my hair, working leave-in conditioner through the honey-gold and orange lengths. The steam fills the small space, carrying the scents of vanilla, brown sugar, and the faint coconut from my shampoo.
Skincare is next.
My elaborate routine that Kael mocks as "excessive" but that makes me feel fancy and in control. Gentle cleanser. Toner that smells like roses and probably costs more than it should. Hyaluronic acid serum. Vitamin C serum. Moisturizer with SPF because even in November, sun damage is real. Eye cream that claims to reverse time but mostly just feels nice and cold on my under-eye bags.
I catch my reflection in the steamy mirror and stick my tongue out at myself.
Take that, anxiety. I'm adorable and I have great skin.
Back in my main room, I pick out my outfit for the day: oversized cream sweater that says "Book Bros Before Book Foes" in glittery letters, dark jeans that make my curves look good;Kael's opinion be damned.Then, my favorite fuzzy socks with little coffee cups on them. Cozy. Comfortable.
Very on-brand for a girl who works part-time at a cafe and spends the rest of her time creating chaotic holiday content.
By the time I settle at my tiny kitchen table with my second cup of coffee, the sky outside is doing that gorgeous thing where deep indigo starts bleeding into purple at the edges. I open the balcony doors all the way despite the cold, and the November air pours in, crisp and sharp and smelling like winter's promise—pine needles and wood smoke and that particular metallic scent that comes right before snow.
My heater is cranked up to "small sun," creating this perfect contrast of icy air on my face and cozy warmth on my back. The juxtaposition feels almost meditative. Balancing opposing forces. Finding peace in the contradiction.
Look at me being all philosophical before 6 AM. Someone give me a medal.
I pull out my journal—the current one, a deep burgundy leather-bound thing with gold edges that I splurge on because it makes me feel like a Victorian heroine writing dramatic letters—and open to a fresh page.
The first rays of sunrise are starting to paint the sky now, soft pink and gold creeping across the horizon like watercolors bleeding together. Absolutely beautiful. Absolutely making me feel things I don't have names for.
I put pen to paper and just... write.
Had the nightmare again.
Kael's voice, his pack, the way they made me feel so small.
Woke up at 4:30 with my heart racing and that awful feeling in my chest like I couldn't breathe.
I hate that they still have this power over me.
I hate that I ran away and built this whole new life and they STILL show up in my dreams.
It's not fair.
I should be over this by now.
But maybe healing isn't linear?
Maybe it's okay to still be scared sometimes?
Surely, running away wasn't weakness—it was strength?
God, I sound like a self-help book.
But also...I did my Pilates.
I showered.
I'm sitting here drinking coffee and watching the sunrise and I'm OKAY.
That counts for something.
I pause, pen hovering over the page, and try not to acknowledge the thing I've been avoiding.
The loneliness that sits in my chest like a stone. Not the dramatic, sobbing-into-my-pillow loneliness, but the quiet kind. The kind that whispers in the spaces between breaths.
