Only when we shatter

Chapter 2: New Air, Old Wounds

I dropped my duffel bag with a heavy thud just inside the front door, the weight of it yanking my shoulder down as I dragged the rolling suitcase behind me. Every part of my body felt sluggish and disjointed—like I’d left fragments of myself scattered across every airport terminal I’d passed through in the last thirty hours.

I was sticky. Crumpled. Hollowed out from the inside. My eyes burned from sleeplessness, lids so heavy they fluttered with each blink. The cabin air, recycled and dry, still clung to my skin. All I wanted now was hot water and silence.

I locked the door behind me and stood for a moment, staring into the space I’d call home for the next two years. My new beginning. My clean slate.

Seattle.

This apartment had been a rushed, desperate find—a listing I stumbled upon at 2 a.m. one night when I couldn’t stop shaking. It was far too expensive, but the location was perfect. No car meant I had to be close to everything: the hospital, the market, the park, the bookstore, the coffee shops I planned to drown myself in. That was all that mattered.

This wasn’t about thriving. This was about surviving.

I kicked off my boots by the entrance and padded toward the living area, letting my body fall into the couch without ceremony. A low groan slipped from my lips as I sank into the white leather cushions. “Hmmm… comfy,” I murmured, half to myself, half to the quiet that greeted me like an old friend.

The apartment was warm. Tastefully decorated in soft creams and ash wood tones, with hints of steel and charcoal—clean and modern, yet not sterile. The gas fireplace, set in sleek gray stone, dominated the living space. I imagined curling up here in thick socks with a mug of tea, the rain tapping against the windows, Seattle’s wet winter painting fog on the glass.

The idea alone brought a flicker of comfort.

I glanced across to the adjoining dining room. A solid oak table anchored the space, surrounded by six straight-backed chairs with leather cushioning. It looked like something pulled from a catalog—sturdy and elegant, the kind of table that begged for dinner parties and laughter. I wasn’t sure I’d have any of those here. Still, I liked that it had potential.

I rose to my feet again and wandered barefoot into the kitchen. It was compact but stylish, with stone countertops, modern chrome fixtures, and white subway tiles climbing the walls. A double-door stainless steel fridge hummed softly in one corner, opposite a fully integrated oven and dishwasher.

I opened the fridge and was met with a few thoughtful welcome touches: a bottle of orange juice, a small carton of milk, and a note taped to the inside door that read, “Fresh bread in pantry. Enjoy your stay. -M.” I smiled despite myself.

I found the bread, just as promised, sitting neatly in a caddy. It smelled faintly sweet and warm.

Off to the side of the kitchen, a narrow door led into a small laundry nook. Inside were a compact washer and dryer stacked neatly, along with shelves holding detergent and folded white towels.

Everything here was so… complete. Organized. Quiet.

I turned down the hallway and opened the first door on the right. My breath caught in my throat.

The master bedroom was a sanctuary. A king-sized bed sat elegantly in the center, wrapped in crisp, cloud-white linens. One side of the bed had a tall, slender nightstand with a softly glowing lamp—a sculptural piece of blown glass that looked like captured smoke. On the other side, an Antoine armchair, low-backed and generously cushioned, sat beneath the window. Its fabric was warm, floral, and vintage, blending perfectly with the soft greys and taupes of the room. I imagined reading there, or simply staring out at the rain with a cup of tea and nothing on my mind.

There was peace here.

I stepped into the second bedroom, just across the hall. Smaller, but no less charming. The bed was a double, also dressed in pristine sheets. The window overlooked a narrow side street—so quiet that no cars were allowed through. Snow dusted the edges of the pavement like forgotten lace, slightly greyed by passing feet. Bald Cypress trees, leafless and spindly, lined the street like watchful sentinels. Their bare branches reached skyward, waiting for spring.

This room, too, had its own en-suite.

I stood there for a moment, my hand brushing the cool glass of the window. I could imagine renting this room out someday, if I had to. If the bills piled up. If life happened.

But for now, I would keep it as it was.

Empty.

I made my way back to the master bedroom, peeling off my travel-wrinkled sweater and sinking down onto the edge of the bed. The mattress was firm, the bedding cool against my skin. The exhaustion was finally catching up with me in thick waves, pulling me under.

All I wanted now was a hot shower and the blessed escape of sleep.

The last few days in Sydney had hollowed me out completely—emotionally, mentally. I hadn’t slept a wink. Not on the plane. Not in the cab. Not since I left the house I grew up in.

But maybe, just maybe, I could sleep here.

Maybe here… I could begin to heal.