Amara knew she was ready to talk before she admitted it to herself.
It wasn't because the pain had vanished. It hadn't. But it no longer controlled her breathing. It no longer bent her spine inward. The quiet had done its work.
She was sitting on the veranda that afternoon, notebook balanced on her knees, when Ifunanya joined her.
"You're different," her sister said.
Amara smiled. "I know."
"Not lighter," Ifunanya added. "Stronger."
That felt accurate.
Amara had spent the last few days writing—not messages, not explanations, but truths. She wrote about the moment she learned to pause before speaking. About the loneliness of being reassured instead of understood. About how often she had abandoned herself in the name of peace.
She closed the notebook and looked up at the sky.
"I think I'm ready to talk to him," she said.
Ifunanya raised an eyebrow. "Talk or fix?"
"Talk," Amara said firmly. "Fixing isn't my job anymore."
That distinction mattered.
Later that evening, Amara texted Daniel.
We can talk tomorrow. In person. If you're willing to listen without correcting me.
The reply came after a few minutes.
I am.
She read it carefully, measuring tone the way she used to—but then stopped herself.
I don't need certainty, she reminded herself. I need honesty.
That night, Amara packed her bag slowly. Not with dread, not with hope, but with resolve. She wasn't returning to resume silence. She was returning to speak.
And this time, she would not shrink to be understood.