It always seemed to happen this way—just when Amina had begun to truly heal, when her peace no longer depended on someone else's approval, they came back.
First it was her cousin, Nia. The one who had gone quiet during Amina's toughest months. The cousin who used to be her best friend.
She called one morning, just after sunrise. Amina stared at her phone screen for a moment, thumb hovering over the answer button. Part of her still ached from the silence Nia had gifted her for nearly a year.
But another part of her—stronger now—answered without bitterness.
"Hello?"
"Amina… hey," Nia's voice cracked like static, "I've been meaning to call. I've been thinking about you a lot."
Amina didn't reply right away. She listened.
"I know I disappeared," Nia continued, "and I'm sorry. I didn't know how to be there for you. You were always the strong one… and I guess I pulled away when I didn't know how to handle your pain."
There it was—the apology she had imagined but stopped expecting.
Amina took a breath. "Thank you for saying that. It hurt, Nia. A lot. I needed you."
"I know," her cousin whispered, "I know. Can we talk? Maybe over tea?"
Amina nodded slowly, even though Nia couldn't see her. "Okay. Let's talk."
Later that day, while tidying her apartment, her phone pinged again. This time, it was Mason.
"I've been thinking about you. Can we meet?"
She stared at the message for a long time.
Mason. The man who had once made her feel like home and exile at the same time. The man she had finally stopped checking her phone for.
Her heart didn't leap like it used to. That was the first sign.
Instead, a steady calm settled inside her. She didn't owe him anything—but she also didn't carry the anger anymore.
She replied simply: "I've changed a lot. If you're ready to talk with honesty, I'll listen."
They met at the park. The same one where they had shared late-night walks and soft confessions. Mason looked different—maybe it was the slight stubble or the sadness in his eyes.
Or maybe she was the one who had changed.
"I messed up," he said, sitting across from her on the bench. "I didn't realize what I had until you were gone. You were always there—so kind, so open—and I took it for granted."
Amina nodded. "You did."
"I'm not asking to start over," he added. "I just… I need to tell you that you were never the problem."
Amina felt her throat tighten. She had carried those doubts like a second skin, wondering if she had been too emotional, too needy, too much.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "That means more than you know."
He reached for her hand, but she gently pulled away.
"I've found something now," she told him, "something I thought I needed from you, but it was always mine."
He looked confused.
"I've found peace," she smiled, "within myself."
That night, Amina stood before her mirror once more. Not to judge. Not to fix. But to witness.
She ran her hands over her arms, her hips, her face.
"This is me," she whispered. "And she is worthy."
She remembered a quote she had written months ago:
"When they return, make sure they're coming to a healed version of you, not the girl still bleeding for their attention."
She wasn't bleeding anymore.
She was blooming.
In the weeks that followed, more people from her past reached out—old friends, distant family. Some came with sincere apologies. Others with weak excuses.
But now, Amina didn't bend or shrink herself to make space for anyone.
She listened. She forgave when it felt right. But she no longer gave people discounts on her worth just because they'd once known her heart.
Her circle became smaller, but truer. Conversations grew deeper. Time spent alone no longer felt lonely—it felt like sanctuary.
In the quiet moments before sleep, she began a new ritual. She whispered three things she loved about herself every night.
"Your resilience."
"Your warmth."
"Your courage to begin again."
She was becoming the love of her life.
And for the first time, she no longer feared being alone.
Because she wasn't.
She had herself.