I sit on the edge of my bed, journal open, pen hovering over the page. Outside, rain taps against the window like it’s trying to get in—or reminding me I’ve kept too much locked out for too long.

Three years since the last breakup. Two since I canceled my dating profile for good. One since I stopped apologizing for existing.

Today, I made pancakes. Just for me. No one to impress, no criticism waiting. I burned the first batch and laughed instead of crying.

My phone buzzes—Mom asking if I’ve considered therapy again. I type back: 'Already going.' Three words, but they feel like revolution.

A knock at the door surprises me. My neighbor, Liam, holds out a borrowed book I forgot to return. He smiles, warm and casual. 'You okay? You’ve been quiet lately.'

I hesitate. The old me would’ve said 'Fine' and shut the door. The new me… the one still learning how to breathe freely… looks him in the eye.

'I’m working on it,' I say. 'Some days are harder than others.'

He nods, not pushing, not pitying. Just seeing me. Really seeing me.

And suddenly, I have a choice: close the door and retreat into safety… or invite him in for tea and risk letting someone witness the mess of my healing.