There wasn't one moment when it shifted. No sharp turn or sudden lightness. Just a slow, quiet crawl back toward something that resembled stability. Like the thaw of winter under grey skies—so slow you hardly noticed, until the ground no longer crunches beneath your feet.
It started with a thought I didn't immediately dismiss.
I was sitting at the kitchen table in Liz's parents' apartment, which had become half my life over the past few months. Morning sun streamed through the curtains, catching the chipped edge of my coffee mug. Liz had already left for work, her nurse's badge forgotten on the counter again, and I was staring at the same three job documents I'd been revising all week. It hit me, out of nowhere: I couldn't stay here forever.
