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Morning found her exactly where she’d gone to ground—at the small kitchen table by the window, curlers still biting gently at her scalp, both hands wrapped around a mug that had already surrendered its heat. The light came in low and amber, catching dust in the air, making the room feel older than it was.

She had decided—officially—to go on a spiritual journey after the breakup. That’s what she told people. It sounded cleaner than the truth.

He had been good to her. Attentive in ways that left no room to hide. He remembered what she needed before she asked. That, more than anything, had made her restless.

Her friends said she was jinxed. Said love slid off her like rain off wax. One of them even joked she should find a holy man, let him wave incense around her head, burn out whatever faulty wiring made her allergic to staying.

She watched the window instead of answering, thumb tracing a chip along the rim of the mug. The coffee smelled faintly bitter now, stale.

The truth was quieter. The moment something began to feel safe, she felt the familiar itch—like engines warming somewhere inside her chest. She didn’t fall apart. She didn’t scream. She simply started looking for a reason to jet.

So she called it a journey. Let the word soften the leaving. Let it sound like movement instead of retreat. Outside, the morning went on without her, steady and unconcerned, while she sat very still, wondering when rest had started to feel like a trap.