It was the first time I felt I'm capable.
Liana
It was my idea.
I said it out loud.
"I think I want to try taking the bus next time."
Elias raised an eyebrow, but didn't argue.
Just handed me a transit card, showed me the route, helped me install the app.
No lecture.
Just trust.
And that felt big.
It was just a fifteen-minute ride.
One bus.
No transfers.
I left early. Dressed carefully. Checked the map twice.
I didn't bring a book. Didn't listen to music.
I needed to pay attention.
The bus smelled like heat and old vinyl.
I sat near the middle, hands gripping the seat in front of me, eyes locked on the screen showing the stops.
I was glad no one sat next to me.
It was going fine—
Until it wasn't.
I didn't press the stop button fast enough.
Too many people were crowded near the door.
I didn't know how to squeeze through.
Didn't want to touch anyone. Didn't want anyone to touch me.
So I stayed still.
And the bus drove past my stop.
Just one block.
That's all.
But to me, it felt like falling off the edge of a map.
I got off at the next stop, heart pounding.
Turned around too fast.
Looked left, looked right.
None of it looked familiar.
I pulled out my phone.
The GPS spun. The blue dot froze.
It didn't make sense.
I started walking.
Left. Right. Backtracked.
Everything looked wrong.
And then—
The panic hit.
It started low—behind my ribs.
Spread cold under my skin.
My hands went numb. My vision blurred.
I stopped on the sidewalk, too close to traffic.
People brushed past.
No one looked.
Which made it worse. Or maybe better.
I couldn't tell.
I crouched down.
Not crying.
Not yet.
Just breathing too fast. Too loud.
Name three things.
Dr. Bailey's voice in my memory, calm and practiced.
When you feel like you're drowning, name three things you can see.
I looked down. Said out loud:
"Shoes."
"Phone."
"Road."
The world didn't stop spinning.
But it slowed.
Just enough.
I sat on the edge of a planter box.
Closed my eyes.
I didn't call Elias.
I wanted to.
God, I wanted to.
But I didn't.
Because this was my choice.
To try. To be out here.
To be someone who could get lost—
And not break.
It took fifteen more minutes.
Walking back and forth.
Following the little blue dot.
And finally—
The campus sign.
My legs ached.
But I found the building.
I walked into Room 203 five minutes late, still breathing like I'd run a marathon.
I didn't cry.
But when I sat down, my eyes stung.
That afternoon, I didn't go straight home.
Like every Tuesday, I walked across campus to the faculty building.
Dr. Bailey was at her desk—organized, composed, still typing something on her computer.
When she looked up and saw me, she didn't ask what happened.
She just said, "You made it."
I sat down.
My hands were still shaking.
"I got lost," I whispered.
"And?"
"I thought I was going to fall apart."
"And?"
"I didn't."
She didn't smile.Didn't say brave. Didn't say proud.
But her voice softened. "That's progress."
I talked more than usual.
Told her about the bus, the wrong turn, the GPS that didn't work.
The panic.
She didn't interrupt. Didn't fix it.
She just listened.
Then she said, "You didn't get there perfectly. But you got there."
It stayed with me.
That night, after dinner, I opened my notebook and wrote it down:
I didn't get there perfectly.
But I got there.
And maybe—
For now—
That was enough.