Page 21 of Jax & Knox

And just like that he’s gone, climbing back into his truck and leaving the cottage feeling strangely warmer than it did five minutes ago.

I stand on the porch, staring at the dust cloud his truck leaves behind, and feel something crack open inside me.

For a long moment, I just stand there, watching the empty road.

Then I look down at the porch beneath my feet, dusty, littered with dried leaves and debris, and something shifts inside me.

I can do something about this.

I should do something about this.

I move carefully back inside, my ribs protesting slightly, and find an old broom leaning against the kitchen wall. It's worn, the bristles uneven, but it'll work.

I step back onto the porch and start sweeping.

Slow. Methodical. Deliberate.

Each stroke of the broom feels like reclaiming something. Not just the porch, but myself. My ability to do something. To contribute. To control even the smallest piece of my environment.

Justin never let me clean without criticism. You missed a spot. You're doing it wrong. Why can't you do anything right?

But here, there's no one watching. No one judging. No one waiting to tell me I've failed.

Just me. The broom. The porch.

I sweep the dust and leaves into a pile at the edge of the steps, then carefully bend to scoop them into my hands and toss them into the overgrown grass. My ribs ache, but it's manageable. Bearable.

I'm doing something.

When the porch is clear, I step back and look at it, really look at it, and feel a flicker of satisfaction.

It's small. It's nothing, really.

But it's mine .

I set the broom aside and walk down the steps, moving slowly across the yard. The grass is long and wild, dotted with clusters of wildflowers, purple, yellow, white. They sway gently in the breeze, bright and alive.

I crouch carefully and pick a handful, their stems soft and delicate in my hands. I gather more, moving slowly, breathing through the discomfort in my ribs.

When I have enough, I carry them back to the cottage and find a mason jar under the kitchen sink. I fill it with water and arrange the wildflowers inside, their colors vivid against the plain glass.

I set the jar on the kitchen counter, and for the first time since I arrived, the cottage feels less like a shelter and more like a home .

Next, I move to the windows.

They're streaked with dust and grime, the glass cloudy and dull. I find an old rag under the sink and wet it, then start wiping down the glass.

Slowly. Carefully.

With each stroke, the view outside becomes clearer. The trees. The fence. The open sky.

I can see now.

Not just through the glass, but in a way I haven't been able to in years.

I'm not hiding anymore.

I'm not trapped.