Joey sat at her desk, staring at a blank page. The city outside her window pulsed with life, but inside, everything was still. Her phone buzzed—messages from Zed, a missed call from Paul, a meme from Wayne. She ignored them all.
She picked up her pen and wrote a list.
> Paul: nostalgia, pain, unfinished.
> Zed: chaos, truth, potential.
> Me: silence, questions, becoming.
She stared at the words. They weren't answers. They were reflections.
She flipped the page and wrote:
> I don't want to be chosen. I want to choose. And I choose me.
It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't defiant. It was quiet. Certain.
She opened her laptop and booked a trip to Lamu. A solo retreat. No itinerary. No expectations. Just space.
When Miriam asked why, Joey said, "Because I need to hear myself think."
She packed lightly—books, journals, a camera, a scarf her mother gave her. She left her phone behind.
At the airport, she felt a pang of guilt. But it passed.
On the plane, she stared out the window, watching Nairobi shrink beneath her. She whispered, "I'll come back different."
And she meant it.