my office, laughter rose from the table. Rain tapped softly against the windows. The city lights blurred beyond the glass, bright and imperfect and mine.
For six years, I had mistaken endurance for love.
For six years, I had paid for a seat at a table where no one intended to feed me.
Now the table was mine.
And every chair around it belonged to someone who knew the difference between loyalty and ownership.
I slept that night in the center of my bed again, but this time freedom did not feel like an empty room.
It felt like a locked door.
It felt like a clean account.
It felt like my own name, spoken without apology.
