I wasn’t over everything, not completely. But I was no longer drowning.
One Friday night, my friend Jason texted:
You alive? Drinks?
I stared at the message. Normally, I would have said no. Staying home had become my safe zone. No surprises. No risks. But something in me said yes.
Maybe it was because work had been stressful. Maybe it was because I was tired of my own thoughts. Maybe it was because healing sometimes looks like deciding you deserve a night out.
So I met him at a small bar we used to frequent years ago. The place was dim, warm, buzzing with weekend energy. Pool tables clacked in the back. Music thumped softly from overhead. People were already leaning on each other the way strangers do when alcohol erases boundaries.
Jason greeted me with a dramatic hug.
“Look at you, out in the wild. I’m proud.”
I rolled my eyes.
“I needed a drink. Don’t make this sentimental.”
We played pool, trash talk flying back and forth. For the first time in a long time, I felt light. My laughter didn’t feel forced. My shoulders weren’t tense.
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