At the end of the year that had taken everything from her, she sat at a kitchen table in a flat she'd moved into alone with two bags and a box of books.
That was what she had. The flat was furnished — not her furniture. The box of books, which had been the first thing she'd packed, because she'd known she would need them even if she didn't know what else she would need. Two bags of clothes. Her phone. Her keys to the new flat.
She sat at the table and conducted a careful inventory.
She was alive. This felt like information worth noting. She had a place to sleep. She had the books. She had enough money in her account for the month, and the month after that if she was careful. She had three people she could call in the night and who would answer.
She had herself. After everything that had been stripped away, there was still a self in here — changed, somewhat hollowed, uncertain about a great many things, but present. Still breathing. Still capable of sitting at a table and thinking about what she had.
She'd thought losing everything would feel like nothing.
It felt like something else.
It felt like the particular silence before things begin. The held breath before the first note. Not absence. Anticipation.
She put the kettle on.
She unpacked the books.
She was bare and still breathing, and from here, she would build.
What you are without the extras is the truest thing about you.
