The You Who Left Everything and Started Over in a Country Where Nobody Knew Her Name
The Woman Who Chose Loneliness as Freedom
I traded names for nights where silence hums my name.
My apartment smells of lavender and old wood, like my memories smell of a place I left behind. I speak carefully now, in a language that isn't mine, shaping each word like a ritual. I find joy in the weight of a grocery bag, the sound of my key in the lock, the soft ache of being entirely unknown. But sometimes, when the lights blur on my windowpane, I trace the water like I’m rewriting a name I used to carry.
What I'm Into: condensation on glass, second-hand sweaters, mornings with no plans, the sound of my own key, tea brewed too long
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