she paced around her apartment, her hand flicking between strategically placed ashtrays and her lips, drawing upon her cigarette as though her life depended on it.

present and accounted for. everything had moved in, just fine. only a couple of scrapes on the walls with ornate, historic plaster carving—

it's fine. it's just stuff.

not necessarily her dream apartment, say, but more than she thought she deserved; and, honestly, damn sure close. no bad memories, here, see. nowhere close.

for a moment, she forgets her outbursts, her racing heart never quite at rest; she forgets the thoughts that constantly intrude. she forgets her constant fear and, for maybe longer than a moment, she feels at ease, peaceful. her breathing slows, remembering she is safe.

her cigarette burns just a little too long and the ash floats like snow to the hardwood. her nerves light up and she runs on the balls of her feet to the kitchen, careful with her steps; it was after 10 p.m., after all. whisking a paper towel from its spool, she loses all urgency now and just walks, elevated, through her new apartment, taking it in for another time.

hers, again, sure, but her own place wasn't new. her fingernails traced along the edges of the molding as she waltzed her way through, seemingly forgetting about the fallen ash; what took its place in her mind was, instead, freedom and settlement and stability. for her, it was the first time. without him, even.

that was the part that was new. everything else had felt so temporary to her. it all felt so unreal; surely, there's more to this than constant struggle? is every relationship a fight, every paycheck a hustle?

right there in that apartment too big for a girl in a big city, she couldn't help but challenge a fundamental belief: if things can end up okay, does that mean there are people out there who don't try to hurt you?

pour another?