Amelia’s POV
I cut my hair on a Saturday morning, sitting in a cheap salon.
“How much?” The stylist—Kara, according to her name-tag—runs her fingers through my hair, assessing. It’s been growing for three years, down to the middle of my back, because Daniel once mentioned he liked long hair on women.
“All of it.” The words feel like freedom. “Just above my shoulders. Something different.”
Kara’s eyebrows rise, but she doesn’t argue. “You sure? That’s a lot to lose.”
I see my eyes in the mirror—it’s been days since I fell apart completely, days of slowly learning to breathe again. “I’m sure.”
The first cut is the hardest. Watching chunks of brown hair fall to the floor, three years of being who Daniel wanted me to be dropping away in sections. But with each snip, I feel lighter. More
