THE WOMAN WHO CHOSE HERSELF
"A Room, A Mirror, and the Truth"
The taxi stopped in front of a small guesthouse on the outskirts of town.
It wasn’t fancy.
It wasn’t even clean.
But it was quiet. And right now, quiet was all Amara needed.
She paid the driver with shaky hands and pulled her small bag over her shoulder.
The receptionist, an older woman with tired eyes, barely looked up as she handed Amara a room key.
Room 7.
No questions asked. No judgments.
Just a key and a tired nod.
Inside, the room was bare — one bed, a cracked mirror, a wooden chair by the window.
The air smelled faintly of dust and forgotten dreams.
Amara dropped her bag by the door and sat heavily on the bed.
For a long time, she just sat there, staring at the cracks on the wall.
Listening to the pounding of her own heart.
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Then, slowly, she got up and walked to the mirror.
What she saw made her breath catch.
Not because she looked bad — but because she looked like a stranger.
The woman staring back at her wasn’t the smiling, hopeful bride she used to be.
Her hair was messy, her eyes swollen from crying, her lips trembling.
But beneath all that pain... there was something else.
Strength.
Defiance.
A quiet kind of power.
Amara placed a hand on the cold surface of the mirror.
“I see you,” she whispered to her reflection.
“For once... I see you.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks freely now, but she didn’t wipe them away.
She allowed herself to feel everything — the loss, the anger, the betrayal, the fear.
It was messy.
It was ugly.
It was real.
And for the first time in her life, Amara wasn’t ashamed of her brokenness.
She embraced it.
Because healing had to start from somewhere.
Even if it started in a dusty, forgotten room with a broken mirror.
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