I stand.
My knees don’t betray me today, which feels like a small miracle I don’t trust enough to celebrate.
I dress slowly. Soft sweater. Skirt. Boots that make me feel a little more solid than I actually am. I braid my hair with fingers that only shake a little, then pull it loose again because the braid feels too tight against my scalp.
Too controlled.
Too much like something I didn’t choose.
Loose waves it is.
I pause at the mirror. There’s a version of me in there that looks… almost the same. Freckles, green eyes, that stubborn softness I’ve always carried like a shield no one takes seriously until they try to break it.
And then there’s the difference.
It’s quieter.
Sharpened.
Like I’ve seen something I can’t unsee and decided not to look away from it.
“Hi,” I tell her softly.
She looks like she might cry.
So I smile instead and leave the room before I can change my mind.
The stairs feel longer than they used to.
Not physically.
Just… every step feels like a decision now.
Down means people, noise, and being seen.
Up means quiet. Safe. Small.
I take the steps anyway.
Because hiding isn’t the same as healing, and I refuse to confuse the two.
The bar is already open.
Arlo’s behind the counter, wiping down glasses like he’s been doing it for fifty years and plans to keep doing it for fifty more. He looks up when I reach the bottom step.
His eyes go straight to my wrists, then he looks back at my face like that’s the only thing that matters.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning,” I echo.
My voice is calm.
I take that win.
He slides a mug across the bar without asking. Coffee. Exactly how I’ve been taking it since I got here.
I wrap my hands around it.
