Every conversation feels like a courtroom lately.
Like I walk in already guilty of becoming someone new.
Some people don’t miss me.
They miss the version they could steer with their hands on the wheel.
The quieter one.
The easier one.
The one who apologized for breathing too loudly.
They call it “wanting what’s best for me,” but safety can wear a disguise.
Because what comforts them
is not always the same thing as what lets me finally live.