The Day I Chose Myself

It never occurred to me that healing might start on a Tuesday. However, it did.

The café was mostly deserted, which pleased me. Now, mornings were my own, a time for solitude, quiet, and leisurely espresso sips. I sat on the patio, notebook open, pen in hand, watching a city that had continued to move even when I couldn't, as the wind toyed softly with my hair.

Four months have passed since the split.

I haven't cried in two months.

And I've just been avoiding his social media for a week now.

His absence lingered like a gentle bruise on a forgotten part of me, but it no longer stung as much as it once had. He wasn't missed by me. When I was with him, I felt whole, wanted, and needed, and I missed it. But now I realize that I was never complete. I was simply overwhelmed by other people's chatter.

The barista grinned at me, perhaps perplexed by my habit of arriving alone. Perhaps she believed me to be a writer. Or perhaps she saw that, one silent moment at a time, I was a woman reconstructing myself.

I glanced at my notebook below. There was still nothing on the first page.

No fancy words were used. No deep verse. I simply wrote, "What do you want now?" at the top of the page in bold ink.

I spent a long time staring at it. The page's corners rustled in the wind. While the city bustled around me, I remained motionless. I didn't want anything spectacular, like an unexpected romance or a big adventure. I didn't want answers, closure, or retribution.

Peace was what I desired.

This is the kind of morning I wanted.

Instead of feeling like a prisoner to my thoughts, I wanted to sit with them.

I wanted to quit feeling bad about my self-choice.

So I put that in writing. Line by line. A silent proclamation. a commitment to be there for myself every single day, regardless of how I felt—depressed, lonely, radiant, or uncertain.

I sensed a change for the first time in months. Not too loudly. Not with fireworks. But gently, as if a curtain were being pulled open after a long, dark night.

He didn't have to see it.

I did it without anyone's applause.

Unfiltered, unapologetic, and unshared, this was my moment.

I sipped my coffee slowly while observing the people who were hurrying by, not realizing that a woman had suddenly decided to start over on a café patio.

I was that woman.

It felt different that morning. I wasn't running from myself for the first time in months, not because the coffee was stronger or the sun was brighter. With my notebook and a half-finished latte, I sat by myself in the café, gazing at the solitary question that read, "What do you want now?" at the top of the page. I had spent so much time adjusting my life to fit the wants, desires, and emotions of others. I had lost the ability to hear my own voice in the process. However, I finally stopped on that peaceful patio while the city passed by. I didn't want promises, passion, or perfection.

All I wanted was peace, the kind that exists in quiet, in the early hours of the morning, and when gentle breezes caress your face. So I put it in writing. Writing what I wanted made me realize that I was making a complete, gentle, guilt-free choice for myself. Instead of coming with a shout, healing came in whispers, through a pen, through breath, and through a silent moment that no one else saw. I did more than just scribble in a notepad that day. I penned a fresh start.