Tia used to believe survival meant being hard.


Never cry. Never show. Never ask.


But lately, the soft had started creeping in.


In the way Nova listened to her breathing over the phone at night without saying a word.

In the way Maya refilled her coffee without asking.

In the way her own hands didn’t shake as much when she reached for a mic anymore.


Soft wasn’t weakness.


It was work.


It was choosing not to match the violence you came from.


At The Yard, she met with the owner—a graying woman named Miss Cee who wore locs down her back and combat boots under her sundresses.


“You said you had a proposal?” Miss Cee asked, sipping from a chipped coffee mug.


Tia laid it out on the table.


The Roses Program:

Free open mic and poetry therapy nights for women and femmes recovering from domestic violence.

Workshops. Healing circles. No cameras. No shame.


Miss Cee read in silence. Then looked up.


“Why you?”


“Because I lived it,” Tia said. “And I’m still here.”


Miss Cee nodded slowly.


“I like that. You ain’t begging for permission. You already built the roots.”


That night, Nova picked her up in the Civic, music low, lights soft.


“You ready to celebrate?” they asked.


“Not yet,” Tia said. “But I’m ready to believe it’s worth celebrating.”


They drove to the lakefront, watched the skyline shimmer off the water, both of them quiet, both of them tired in the same way survivors often are—like warriors learning rest again.


Nova reached into the backseat and pulled out a small box.


“Happy your voice can’t be stolen day.”


Tia laughed. “That a real holiday?”


“It is now.”


Inside the box was a silver chain with one small word:


Bloom.


Tia touched it gently, voice soft.


“Can you stay?”


Nova nodded. “Yeah. As long as you need.”


Tia put the chain on.


For the first time in years, she didn’t feel the weight of something around her neck.


She felt lifted.