I’ve lost the version of my life that made sense, even when it was making me miserable. The part that keeps surprising me is that I miss all of it, even though I chose to walk away from it.
I thought choosing myself would feel like relief immediately. Mostly, it feels like withdrawal.
I spend too much time on my mom’s couch with a blanket over my legs, laptop balanced on my knees, staring at business formation paperwork and pricing models, and outreach drafts until the words blur together. I’ve registered the name. I’ve set up the website skeleton. I’ve even designed the logo and then redesigned it three times because I keep convincing myself the font choice determines whether I deserve to succeed.
No clients yet.
Just hope.
And hope is a dangerous thing when you’ve been living on discipline for as long as I have.
My phone rings.
Mom.
I answer on the second ring. "Hi."
"Meet me at Serendipity’s," she says like she’s announcing a plan we made days ago.
I sink deeper into the couch automatically. "I’m not really feeling up to it. I think I’m just going to stay in."
"It’s a great little coffee shop, and they have the best sandwiches," she says, ignoring my objection entirely. "Just come. I’ll send you the address."
"Mom—"
The line went dead.
I stare at my phone as if it might ring back with an apology for hanging up on me, but it doesn’t. Of course, it doesn’t. My mother has never been the kind of woman who asks permission when she’s already decided something is good for you.
I exhale slowly, letting my head fall back against the couch cushion.
"Fine," I mutter to the empty living room. "I’ll go eat your overpriced sandwich."
I glance down at myself.
Oversized Legacy PR 5K shirt, the one I haven’t had the heart to throw away yet because it still smells faintly like a life I understood, and yoga leggings with a small hole near the knee that I keep pretending isn’t there.
I look like someone who has quietly given up.
Which isn’t entirely inaccurate.
I push myself off the couch and shuffle down the hallway to my old bedroom that still feels like mine in the way childhood spaces do. Familiar and non-judgmental of the life you’ve been leading since you’ve been gone.
I changed into jeans and a sweater, something that doesn’t scream "I’ve been emotionally decomposing on the couch for three weeks." I pull my hair into a messy bun on top of my head, swipe on mascara so my eyes don’t look as hollow as they feel, and then I grab my keys and head out.
The drive is short, the Seattle streets damp with recent rain, the sky a dull gray that makes everything feel quieter. When I pull into the small lot and step out, I can already smell coffee and warm bread the moment I open the door.
Serendipity’s is cozy in a way that feels intentional, like someone designed it to make people linger. Soft lighting. Wooden tables. A chalkboard menu that makes you feel like ordering soup is a life choice instead of a lunch option.
I spotted my mom immediately.
And then my eyes drift to the table next to hers.
My feet slow.
Because the women at the round table are not random coffee shop patrons. I recognize them from Oakley’s the first night I met Luka. They introduced themselves to me when I walked in, asking if they had seen Luka. They were more than happy to point him out to me. Almost too happy when they saw my badge and knew that I was his new PR agent.
One woman in particular stands out. Blonde hair, blue eyes, dressed like the General Manager of a major league team… because she is.
