“Healing doesn’t make a sound. It’s quiet, slow… like learning how to breathe without flinching.”


The salon chair became my sanctuary.


By week three, I had regulars—women who asked for me by name, who talked about their man problems and job stress and babies with runny noses while I shaped their nails and nodded like I’d never seen the dark side of the world.


Maybe they knew. Maybe they didn’t.


But in here, I was Nell the nail tech, not Nell the escort. Not Nell the girl who used to be afraid of mirrors.


Dee didn’t ask questions. She just watched me work like she was proud and a little surprised that I stayed. I stayed. For once.


During lunch breaks, I’d sit in the back with my red notebook, scribbling goals and affirmations like they were gospel.


Take one business class a month.

Build website for the salon.

Look into opening a second chair next year.


I started dreaming again. Not the kind of dreams that came in short gasps and cold sweats. Real ones.


One night, after my last client, I closed up shop and walked home under the streetlights, feeling… normal. Whatever that meant. I stopped by the corner store, bought milk, cereal, and some nail polish I didn’t need. Just because I could.


But peace is a fragile thing.


When I got back to my apartment, a white envelope was taped to my door.


No name. Just one word written in sharp black ink:


“COME HOME.”


I stood there for a long time.


I knew the handwriting.


Marcus.


Inside, I locked the door and double-checked the windows. Then I turned on every light in the apartment and curled up on the couch, heart thudding like a bass drum.


He hadn’t contacted me in two years. Not since I slipped away in the middle of the night, left no note, no warning. Just vanished. I thought he’d moved on.


But Marcus never lost track of his property.


And to him, I had always been property.


I didn’t tell Dee. Not yet.


Instead, I worked harder. Filled my schedule. Took every client I could. Stayed late. Slept less.


But I felt him now—his presence like smoke under the door. Creeping in. Watching.


I started carrying the blade again.


I kept my red notebook closer.


And every night, before bed, I wrote the same thing on a blank page.


You are free.

You are not going back.

You are not his.

You are not the girl you were.

Not anymore.