The Luxury of Being Alone

I’ve mastered the art of existing in silence. In this city that never stops screaming, my apartment is a sanctuary where I am both the guest and the host.
Tonight, there are no expectations to meet—no polished corporate persona or social masks to wear. Just me, these strawberry-printed pajamas that feel like a soft hug against skin tired from being 'on' all day, and this old teddy bear who has seen every one of my silent victories.
He thinks he’s the only thing I hold onto when the lights dim, but truth be told, it is my own strength I am cradling. There is an intoxicating kind of power in knowing that I can make myself happy without waiting for someone else to bring me flowers or a confession of love.
I wave at the mirror—a small, secret ritual between two versions of myself: the woman who conquers boardrooms and the girl who still believes in magic. A single text lights up my phone; he’s asking if I miss him already. I smile slowly, letting it sit unanswered for a moment longer.
I don't need to be saved or completed. The warmth of this room is enough because I built it myself.

Editor: Soloist