It started with an invite I almost ignored.
A friend of Nia's was hosting a rooftop pop-up, art, music, open skies, soft light.
Two months ago, I would've scrolled past it.
But something in me paused.
I clicked, Interested.
And for once, I didn't overthink it. I just… went.
I wore my favorite earrings, the ones Muir never noticed.
Sprayed a scent I hadn't touched since the early days,
when I thought love was in the way someone looked at you.
This time, it wasn't for him.
It was for the version of me that had clawed her way back up.
The rooftop was humming…strangers, laughter, wild little bursts of brilliance.
A girl with red box braids stood in the middle and read poetry that cracked my chest open.
One wall had a mural that read: "Soft doesn't mean small."
Something in me unclenched. Like, yes. That. That's what I've been trying to name.
I met people who didn't know me as the girl with the long shadow trailing her.
They didn't see heartbreak or survival.
They just saw me. Bright. Curious. Loud. Alive.
Someone asked what I did, and for the first time in ages, I didn't shrink when I answered.
Another offered to link me with a creative campaign needing fresh eyes.
By the end of the night, I had my legs propped on the railing,
ginger cocktail in hand, talking about books, not boys.
And when a guy with warm eyes asked if I was seeing anyone,
I smiled and said,
Just myself, for now. She's been through a lot.
I walked home late, not out of recklessness, but because I could.
The city buzzed, ordinary and beautiful.
I passed a group of girls dancing barefoot in a fountain. I didn't envy them.
I was already holding my joy.
Not once did I think of him.
And that's when I knew,
This wasn't about moving on from him anymore.
It was about moving into me.
Not about healing a broken heart,
but figuring out what it looks like when my life belongs solely to me.
This wasn't closure.
This was continuation.
I wake up earlier now. Not from anxiety, but from curiosity.
I sit with my tea by the window,
not scrolling through old chats, but checking flight prices.
Belgium. Florence. Lisbon.
The world is an open tab now, and I'm no longer scared to click.
I signed up for another short design course.
My evenings are full of YouTube tutorials and quiet ambition.
I'm building something. A portfolio. A future. A self that doesn't shrink.
Nia noticed it first. You're glowing again, she said.
I laughed, but part of me believed her.
Because this glow isn't about my skin.
It's about space, the kind that used to belong to someone who didn't want to stay.
Now, it's mine.
It's wild how much energy I have
when I'm not wasting it trying to decode someone's silence.
For the first time, I didn't check my reflection after we spoke.
Didn't adjust my voice.
I just… existed.
That's new. That's healing.
I'm not rushing. Not reaching.
I'm not trying to replace a ghost with a new face.
What I gave before wasn't wasted.
It was practice for presence.
For love that won't ask me to beg.
Sometimes I still think of Muir or even Kahlil.
Briefly. Like the way an old bruise tugs when you stretch.
Not because it hurts, just because it's part of the body now.
Part of the story.
But not the whole story.
The girl I was…
the one who waited for replies, who clung to crumbs,
who carried softness like a liability,
She got me here.
And I love her for it.
But I'm writing new letters now.
To myself. To my future. To the version of me I fought so hard to become.
This isn't a compromise.
This isn't a chase.
This is a choice.
And this time,
I'm choosing me, on purpose, out loud, and without apology.