But she never did.
Because she couldn’t.
So she wrote instead.
Page after page. Fearless, angry, tender, tired.
And every evening on her way home from the café, she passed a boutique window downtown—glass polished, displays pristine. And in the center: this very pen. The same one now in her hands. She’d stopped to admire it more times than she could count. Dreamed of saving enough to buy it one day as a gift to herself. A reward, maybe, for surviving.
But groceries came first.
Jamie’s meds came first.
Life always came first.
She never did.
Until now.
Tears blurred her vision as she looked down at the gift. The pen. The journal. Her name engraved like a quiet declaration.
It wasn’t just the gift—it was the intention. The knowing. The quiet care behind it. Damien’s way of speaking
