At fifteen, I vanished without a trace, swallowed by a storm no one cared enough to name. They called it rebellion, a phase, a girl being difficult, but inside me whole worlds were burning to ash. Every slammed door became a verdict, every whispered argument a sentence, and love felt like a test I was always failing. The night I left, the sky split open with rain, and I walked away barefoot, bleeding, convinced no one would notice the empty chair at the table. Years later, the storm still lived in my bones, but it no longer owned me. Now, in my dress blues, with calloused hands and a spine forged from salt and steel, I stand before the same door that once closed on my life, my hand trembling as I rea… Continues…
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