Chapter 1:
No one could point to the exact moment Anita stopped blending in with everyone else, because nothing dramatic happened that day. There was no argument loud enough to draw attention, no public embarrassment, no final sentence that sounded like a goodbye. If anyone had been watching her closely, they would have seen nothing more than a woman standing at a pedestrian crossing, waiting for the light to change like everyone else.
It was a cold evening, the kind that made people walk faster without realizing it. Anita stood still, her coat buttoned all the way up, her phone pressed into her palm as if it might slip away if she relaxed her grip. The message on the screen had been there for hours, untouched, unchanged.
You talk too much. Don't ruin everything.
She had read it so many times that the words no longer surprised her, but they still managed to sit heavily in her chest. She thought about replying, even typed a few words at some point, but deleted them before sending anything. Explaining herself always seemed like the right thing to do at first, and then later felt like a mistake she could not take back.
Around her, the city moved on without her. A group of friends laughed as they passed behind her, their voices loud and careless. A couple stood a few steps away, leaning into each other, speaking in low tones as if the world had made space just for them. Somewhere nearby, music spilled out of a café, warm and inviting, the kind of sound that made people believe they were exactly where they needed to be.
Anita felt detached from it all. Not sad, not angry, just distant, as though there was a thin glass wall between her and everything else.
When the light finally changed, she crossed the road at her usual pace. She was not in a hurry. Rushing had never helped her before. As she walked, memories surfaced without her asking for them, the way they always did when her mind was tired.
She remembered the rooms where she was told to wait her turn, even when she had already waited long enough. She remembered meetings where she spoke carefully, choosing her words with intention, only to hear the same ideas repeated later by someone else, louder and praised. She remembered the quiet that followed whenever she pointed out something that was wrong, a silence that was never discussed but always understood.
No one raised their voice at her. No one touched her. People always say she was lucky because of that. What they did instead was slower and harder to explain. They reduced her presence gradually, made her feel smaller without ever saying they were doing it, and wrapped it in language that sounded reasonable. It was called patience. It was called loyalty. Sometimes it was called leadership.
By the time she reached her apartment building, her shoulders ached from holding herself together all day. She unlocked the door, stepped inside, and locked it behind her with a soft click that felt more final than it should have. She leaned her back against the door and slid down until she was sitting on the floor. For a while, she stayed there, breathing steadily, listening to the quiet of her own space.
Eventually, she stood up and walked to the mirror in the hallway. She did not rush past it like she usually did. She stopped and looked properly, taking in the face that stared back at her. The woman in the mirror looked tired, but not broken. There was a firmness in her eyes that Anita had not noticed before, something unresolved rather than defeated.
She realized then that she was not weak.
She was unfinished.