Trying to move on

I told myself that I would let it go.

For days, I buried myself in routine, convincing myself that normalcy was the best medicine. I dragged myself to work, plastered on a smile for customers, and scrolled through meaningless posts on my phone during breaks, trying to ignore the weight pressing down on me. Each morning, I told myself it was just another day. Each night, I struggled to fall asleep, haunted by fragments of memory: Trevor's psychotic grin, the feel of the cold bricks against my back and his knife on my throat, and the moment he flew through the alley by the mighty hand of my so-called savior.

Monica checked in constantly, always asking how I was doing. I’d reassure her that I was fine, but she didn’t believe me. Neither did I.

My apartment felt emptier than ever. Every creak in the hallway outside my door made me jump. I started double-checking the locks before bed and leaving the lights on in the kitchen, telling myself it wasn’t paranoia—just practicality.

I think my mental is state is getting slightly better each day. Keep going, one day at a time, pretending that night had been a nightmare I’d already woken up from.

And maybe, if I told myself that lie enough times, I’d start to believe it.