Steam loosens its grip on the room as I step from the shower, droplets clinging to me like tiny questions I’m not ready to answer. The mirror is still blurred, a soft haze that delays the truth. I lift my hand and wipe a swath through the fog, and there I am—clearer than I want to be, thinner than I remember, a little scared of the person returning my stare. The two days of growth I shaved away and left a pink, tender surface across my face: a landscape freshly exposed, maybe hopeful. I run my fingertips along the bare skin and feel the tremor beneath, the quick pulse of being seen. And in the sink, I read the shavings like tea leaves.

For a moment I stand—naked, open, undecorated by excuses or disguises. My body looks both familiar and strange, as if I’ve just arrived inside it after a long trip. Collarbone sharper, ribcage more pronounced, shadows pooling where once there was softness. I inhale, trying to fill myself, but the breath wavers, snagging on something I cannot name. I tell myself it’s only the cold air, but something deeper is there moving, something old and restless.

The light hums above me, and yet I don’t look away. Maybe I am waiting to recognize myself again, to meet the version of me that survived the week, the month, the years of shrinking. Maybe I am waiting for reassurance, or absolution, or just a sign that this reflection is still allowed to change. Water runs down my sternum, slow as a thought, and I watch it fall, disappearing at the edge of my reflection. I whisper nothing to the glass, but the silence feels like an answer. I stand there, learning again how to look at myself without flinching.

I dress a little nicer than the morning asks, smoothing my sweater as if someone might notice. At the coffee place I take my usual seat, pretending I’m just here for caffeine, not company. I sip slowly, hoping to look like the kind of person who starts a conversation, or at least invites one. Around me people rehearse their day, checking watches, scanning headlines, already elsewhere. But I prepared for this—this small hope of sharing warmth with someone I knew, steam rising between us like a gentle introduction. The place hums with people tuning themselves for the day, but I’ve prepared for something softer: the hope of not drinking this cup alone. I sit straighter, imagining I’m the kind who begins conversations and leans toward her with warmth. I want to look my best for the chance of a shared moment. Once more, our moment. I sit alone, ready, waiting, practicing belonging with every quiet sip.