#postrupture

I am not leaving empty handed, the author repeats the thought again. It’s been the mantra rolling on repeat since everything finally collapsed. She paces the too-small space, determined to find the memory, the lesson, anything that survived the most recent wrecking ball that swung on her world.

Too much time— too much hurt to leave with nothing.

Her eyes flick past that stupid treat on the headboard, refusing to consider it even once mor—

Her gaze locks on the mirror on his side of the room. She had emerged from her comfort hoodie today, and after a long shower of self-care, she looks more like the living version of herself—or rather, she thought she had…

The woman looking back at her was hardly woman at all. The sheer toll the last few months had taken on her had never been more stark than that moment in her simple tank top. A slight twist to the side and she sucked in a choked gasp at how clearly her ribs stood out through the material. She dare not bother lifting the shirt for a “better” view.

The jeans she had sworn were brand new hung off her hips as if they couldn’t bare the touch. She knew without even trying her belt would be of no use here.

Taking in the horrifying alternate angles, a thought springs forward, uninvited, “Look at that, we’re leaving less than empty handed.”

A loud crash fills the room and glass shards litter the bedroom floor. Our author walks away smiling, completely unbothered by the looming consequence of the next seven years after everything else.