I remember sitting on my creaky sofa bed, drinking lukewarm instant coffee out of a chipped mug, looking around that tiny square box and realizing something that made my chest burst wide open:
I survived. I’m free.
It didn't matter that the kitchen was eight steps away. It didn't matter that I was broke, or that my body was still recovering, or that I had to start over from absolute zero.
That tiny shoebox was mine.
Nobody was yelling at me. Nobody was judging my body, or telling me I was worthless, or treating me like a ghost in my own life.
And now, here I am.
I look around the penthouse, at the art hanging on the walls, the four massive bedrooms, the three spa-like bathrooms, and the fireplace in the living room that’s bigger than my old shoebox bathroom is.
A sudden, overwhel
