Chapter 2 — Shattered Foundations
Ayanna
The morning sun filtered through my blinds, painting uneven stripes of light across the ceiling. I traced the lines with my eyes, hoping they might untangle the messy knot of thoughts in my head. My chest felt like it was carrying the weight of a full backpack—one I’d been lugging around since last night.
The tears hadn’t come yet. They hovered behind my eyes, heavy and threatening to spill over, but I refused to let them. Crying felt too much like surrendering, like Shawn would still own a part of me even after I’d walked out. He didn’t deserve my tears.
I rolled out of bed, my feet landing on the cool wooden floor. My gold hoop earrings sat on the nightstand, catching the faint glow of morning light. They seemed so small, so unassuming, but slipping them on last night had felt like donning armor. A reminder that I wasn’t just the girl who had let Shawn’s careless words and hollow promises define her. I was something more.
I moved through my apartment in a fog, going through the motions—pouring coffee, tidying up—but the memories of last night clung to me like damp clothes after a storm. Heavy. Uncomfortable. Impossible to ignore. The faint smell of coffee filled the air, warming the small space, but it couldn’t chase away the lingering ache.
---
I was eighteen when I met Shawn. First week of college. Fresh-faced, awkward, and entirely too eager to please. He had been the star of that week’s basketball game, his name already whispered around campus like a legend. I still remember standing in the crowd, packed bleachers pressing in on me, the rhythm of the game pounding in my chest. And then there he was—swagger, confidence, and a grin that made half the girls in the section giggle.
When Shawn noticed me, I thought I’d won some kind of cosmic lottery. I was just a small-town girl at a big university, and he was larger than life. When he’d asked me out after that first game, I latched onto the idea that his attention made me special.
But pedestals are tricky things. Sooner or later, someone’s bound to fall off.
And boy, did he fall.
---
Back on my couch, I clutched a mug of coffee I wasn’t drinking. My phone buzzed on the table, but I didn’t reach for it. Not yet. The idea of facing the world felt like too much. Was it him? Part of me wanted it to be, if only to give me a chance to say the things I couldn’t last night. But the other part—the smarter part—knew that opening that door again would only drag me backward.
Instead, I reached for my journal, worn and creased from being shoved into too many bags. Its pages were messy—half-formed thoughts, impulsive sketches, random to-do lists. Nothing curated or polished, just raw and real. I flipped to an empty page and stared at it, waiting for my thoughts to settle.
*I don’t know who I am without him.*
The words came before I could stop them. Stark. Honest. Too honest.
It wasn’t that I didn’t have an identity outside of Shawn. I knew I did. But somewhere along the way, I’d let his needs, his dreams, his opinions swallow mine. I’d shaved my edges, softened my corners, reshaped myself until I fit neatly into his world.
I thought back to the moments I’d ignored—little red flags I’d brushed aside in the name of love. Like the time I told him I wanted to intern at the photography studio downtown.
“That’s cute, babe,” he’d said with a laugh, his tone syrupy and dismissive. “But you’ll never make a living doing that.”
It hadn’t been the first time he’d brushed me off, but something about the way he said it stuck like a burr. I’d wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, but the words had gotten caught in my throat. I’d ended up smiling weakly instead, letting him believe he was right.
Or the countless times he’d sighed and said, *“You’re overthinking it, Ayanna,”* whenever I tried to address anything that didn’t sit right.
And I’d let him. I’d let him minimize my dreams, my instincts, my worth. Because I thought if I just loved him harder, tried harder, I could make us work.
But love wasn’t supposed to feel like this. It wasn’t supposed to feel like shrinking yourself to fit into someone else’s frame.
---
The pen hovered over the page, my thoughts spiraling further back to a moment last semester.
I had been working on an art history paper late one evening, my laptop glowing softly in the corner of my small apartment. Shawn had shown up unannounced, sprawling across my couch like it was his personal throne.
“Turn that off,” he’d said, gesturing lazily at my laptop. “Come watch this game with me.”
“I really need to finish this,” I had replied, my tone light but firm.
He’d rolled his eyes, stretching his legs onto my coffee table. “You’re always working on something. Just take a break.”
And I had. Even as guilt gnawed at the edges of my mind, I’d closed my laptop and sat beside him.
That guilt had become my constant companion in our relationship—always there, whispering that I wasn’t enough, that I wasn’t doing enough.
---
I let out a sharp exhale, my chest tightening. Without thinking, I hurled the pen across the room. It hit the far wall with a soft thud before clattering to the floor. The sudden release surprised me, leaving a strange emptiness in its wake. My breathing was uneven now, my throat tight and hot.
The tears finally came.
I doubled over, my hands clutching the edge of the couch as the sobs wracked through me. They were messy and loud, but they didn’t feel like surrender. They felt like release. Like I was wringing out every ounce of hurt and anger I’d been carrying.
When the tears slowed, I sank back into the cushions, my head resting against the worn fabric. My chest felt raw, but lighter. Like I’d finally put down that too-heavy backpack.
---
The hours passed in a blur of small tasks—wiping down the counters, flipping through a textbook I didn’t really absorb. A photograph on the wall caught my eye as I moved through the apartment. It was one I’d taken last summer, a hazy shot of the shoreline at sunset. I’d forgotten how much I loved capturing moments like that.
I grabbed my laptop and typed “local photography opportunities” into the search bar. A list of workshops and meetups popped up, and I bookmarked a few that sounded promising. It wasn’t much, but it was a step. A tiny flame of excitement flickered to life in my chest.
By the time the sun dipped low, painting my apartment walls in hues of gold, I felt a strange sort of clarity. I grabbed my journal again, flipping to a fresh page.
*Goals for independence:*
Focus on my photography.
2. Do something just for me every week.
3. Surround myself with people who see me—not who they want me to be.
4. Try one bold thing.
I stared at the list, my pen hovering over the page. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something. A start.
I picked up my phone, scrolling briefly through the notifications. A message from Liz caught my eye: *“Hey! Coffee tomorrow? Let me know how you’re doing. Love you, girl.”* A faint smile tugged at my lips. I typed back a quick, *“Yes to coffee. I’ll fill you in tomorrow.”*
I set the phone down and reached for my hoop earrings. I slipped them on, feeling their familiar weight settle against my ears.
These weren’t just accessories. They were reminders. Of strength. Of resilience. Of who I used to be—and who I was becoming.
As the first star blinked into existence outside my window, I breathed in deeply and whispered to myself, “You’re going to be okay.”
And for the first time in a long time, I believed it.
