A week later, I moved in with my older cousin Tessa. She had a small apartment in the city and an even smaller cat named Miso. It wasn’t glamorous, but it felt like freedom.
I got a job at a local bookstore down the street. Quiet work. Calm. It gave me time to think, to heal.
At first, I expected people to judge me. To treat me like the girl who ran out on her wedding. But most were kind. A few even called me brave.
Two months in, an old woman came into the shop, looking for a cookbook. She had a thick scarf wrapped around her head and walked with a cane, but her eyes were sharp.
As I helped her search the shelves, she said, “You have the eyes of someone who’s finally free.”
I smiled awkwardly. “That obvious, huh?”
She nodded. “I left my first husband on our wedding night. No regrets. Painful? Yes. But necessary. Sometimes the biggest kindness you can do for yourself is choosing peace over appearances.”
That conversation stuck with me.
One day, a man came in looking for a gift. He was awkward, soft-spoken, with a gentle smile and big hands. He asked if I could help him pick a poetry book for his sister’s birthday.
