The first time she laughed — really laughed — she startled herself.

It was a belly-deep kind of laugh that snuck up on her during dinner with friends. She covered her mouth, then didn’t. She let it out, unfiltered. No one flinched. No one shushed her. She was loud. And no one tried to make her smaller.

That night, she wore the yellow sweater he said washed her out. She got compliments on it.

She began reintroducing herself to the things she used to love: playing guitar, reading poetry aloud, wearing her hair in ways she liked, cooking elaborate meals just for her. The woman she once buried started showing through in her colors, in her voice, in her walk.

She was still healing. But she wasn’t bleeding anymore.

Her heart didn’t race when his name came up. She didn’t feel the need to make herself palatable, desirable, tolerable. She could just be.

And she liked her. For the first time in years, she felt like her home wasn’t just her apartment.
It was her body. Her thoughts. Her life.