My favourite feeling is knowing I can leave if I want to. That my feet belong to me.
I like my eggs overcooked, edges crisped just right. I like sitting on the floor instead of the couch, my back pressed against something solid, something that doesn’t move.
I like walking instead of taking cabs, feeling the distance in my body, knowing exactly how far I’ve come.
These are things I know about myself now. Just small things. Chosen. Kept. Collected one by one.
It takes me three years to finish my studies. Three years of showing up. Of learning. Of building a foundation I can stand on.
It takes another year after that to save enough—to sign a lease, to step into a space that is mine and know I can stay there without counting every coin, without wondering how I’ll make it through the month.
One bedroom. One bathroom. A window that looks out at a brick wall.
It isn’t beautiful. But it’s mine. That matters more than anything.
I got the job offer two weeks ago.
Social worker. Entry level. The pay is modest. The hours will be long. The work will be hard.
But it matters.
I didn’t hesitate in saying yes.
Now everything I own is packed into boxes. Clothes. Books. Things I didn’t realize mattered until I had to decide whether to keep them.
The room looks different.
Stripped back. Bare. The walls empty where small traces of my life used to be. The floor clear. The corners echoing in a way they never did before.
I stand in the doorway longer than I need to. Taking it in.
This room held me through it all.
On nights when everything felt too loud, it gave me quiet. On mornings when getting up felt impossible, it gave me somewhere to start. It watched me learn how to exist on my own. It watched me change.
I step inside one last time, my gaze moving over the places where things used to be. The corner where I’d sit with my backagainst the wall. The window I’d stand by, watching the light change through the day.
There’s nothing left here now.
And that feels right.
I pick up the last box and carry it out.
Maeve is at the dining table when I step into the living room. Her elbows are spread wide, one hand wrapped loosely around a mug she’s forgotten to drink from. She looks up the second I step into the room, her eyes locking onto me with a focus that tells me she’s been waiting.
“I still don’t understand why you have to leave,” she says. “You could just stay here forever, you know.”
I set the box down and take the chair beside her.
“I know,” I say. “But I have to do this for myself.”
She exhales, dragging a hand down her face. “Yeah, yeah. I know.” She waves her hand, dismissive, but it lacks its usual force. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
Later, there will be a small gathering at the café. Just the staff. Maeve insisted on it, of course—refused to let me slip out of this place without something that marks the moment.
But right now, it’s just us.
The house feels different today. The air carries a kind of awareness, as if it knows something is ending.
