Weeks passed, and life slowly found a new rhythm. I found a way to balanced my studies with counseling sessions, and though the weight of my past didn't vanish, it grew lighter.
My relationship with my parents improved less shouting, more listening. Elliot became a steady presence, but we learned to give each other peace, he stood by me when the past come crawling again, understanding that healing was a journey, not a destination.
My grades improved, and I was admitted into the national open University where I could learn and also acquire a skill, but more importantly, so did my confidence. I joined a creative writing club, pouring my emotions into stories that helped me process my own.
On a sunny Saturday, I stood by the window, a gentle breeze playing with the pages of my journal. The words I had written filled the pages my fears, my dreams, my strength.
A message popped up on my phone. "Proud of you. Keep going." It was from Elliot
I smiled, closing the journal. My story wasn't perfect, but it was mine, and I was ready to keep writing it, one page at a time, as the day goes by.