We die.
We get caught.
We get worshipped.
We get punished.
We become cautionary tales.
We become Netflix specials.
We become hashtags.
We become jokes men tell at dinner parties when they want to pretend they’re not afraid of us.
I could write any of those.
But I don’t like obvious. Obvious is for people who get caught.
I don’t answer.
Instead, I put the pen down hard and draw a thick line through the question—one brutal stroke. Then another. Crossed out so aggressively the paper dents.
Because the question itself is sentimental.
It assumes we’re a category.
A type.
A doomed sisterhood in matching black dresses, trading knives and trauma like recipes.
No.
I lean in and write in the margin, neat and small, as if I’m correcting a student’s work:
Outcome-dependent.
That’s it.
No confession.
No philosophy.
No justification.
Just the truth that matters.
If you win, you’re a survivor.
If you lose, you’re a cautionary tale.
If you’re lucky, you’re both.
I sit back, sip my tea, and listen to the house settle around me. I run my thumb over the pomegranate again, over the etched seeds.
Someone started this.
Someone curated it.
