I do not plan the moment the way people expect defiance to be planned.
There is no speech rehearsed in the mirror, no dramatic resolve crystallising overnight, no surge of anger sharp enough to carry me forward on instinct alone. What I feel instead, when I wake that morning, is a quieter clarity, the kind that settles behind the eyes and refuses to move once it has taken root.
Rachel left me a route.
That thought stays with me as I shower, the water warm and steady against my skin, steam fogging the glass as I scrub my hair clean and rinse it thoroughly. I braid it back tight, fingers moving with practiced efficiency, not because I want to look composed, but because I want nothing loose that can be grabbed or interpreted. Neutral clothes. Boots laced properly. No symbols. No softness o
