The cast came off my wrist on a Tuesday. By Thursday I still couldn't grip a pen without shaking. Nobody tells you the bone heals but the hand forgets.
I was supposed to take the 9 to Drift for my shift at the call center. I got on the 14 to Mapleton instead. I didn't notice until the driver called out a street name I'd never heard.
I just sat there. My hands in my lap. The spelling-bee ribbon from fourth grade was still folded in my wallet — yellow, frayed, the word 'resilience' misspelled on it because the judge had mercy on a kid who tried.
The bus went past a reservoir I didn't know existed. Then a row of houses with actual gardens. Then a bakery that smelled, even through the sealed windows, like something I remembered from a life I hadn't lived yet.
I rode it to the last stop. Then I rode it back. I was two hours late to work. I called in sick for the first time in four years and it wasn't a lie.
The quiet battles are the ones where nobody sees you choose yourself. Getting on the wrong bus was the first thing I'd done on purpose in months.
My hand still shook the next morning. But I held a coffee cup with both hands and didn't apologize for needing two.