She loved music. That was the cruel part. She still did. Certain songs could stop her mid-step. Certain harmonies made her heart ache. But she no longer believed she had to absorb other people’s storms to prove her devotion. Polite emails were sent wrapping up loose ends. When asked what she would do next, she she wasn’t sure and said so. That made some nervous but it didn’t make her nervous at all. She moved toward smaller days, avoiding situations where people talked about “breaking” or “blowing up” as if those were desirable states. Sometimes she missed the intensity and the feeling of being necessary. But she did not miss the fear. She still listened to music, often alone with the lights low. Now it felt less like a battleground, more like a companion. She had not escaped madness entirely. She knew that impossible. But stepped back enough to choose when to engage, and when to rest. That, she decided, was close enough for safety.