I stand in front of the mirror in the bathroom and can't gather my thoughts. I rest my hands on the sink and then approach the mirror. I don't recognize myself. My brown hair has been dyed blonde and cut by about twenty centimeters. Now it only reaches just below my shoulders. My dark, oversized hoodie has been replaced with a pale pink shirt, ripped pants with white jeans, and my old shoes with white Converse. I look in the mirror, but I don't see myself. I don't see Elizabeth Collins. I see Ashley McKenzie. The only thing left of Elizabeth are the dark eyes filled with fear and pain. I bite my lip and run my fingers through the light hair before heading outside. Margharet is waiting for me at a table by the window, holding a cup of coffee between her hands. I sit across from her and slide my cup of black coffee closer to me.

"I don't recognize myself at all," I say with mixed feelings.

"That's the idea, Ashley. You look really lovely. Give yourself some time to get used to it," she replies, smiling at me. I nod in agreement, then lift my cup and take a small sip of the hot coffee.

"Could you tell me a bit about your home? Your routine? Your son and daughter?" I ask.

Margharet squints her eyes slightly and contemplates for a moment. Finally, she raises her gaze, and our eyes meet. After a moment, I lower my gaze again and observe the pair of sunrays piercing through her cup and her fingers.

"My four-year-old daughter, Mia, is a walking ray of sunshine. She always has so much energy that sometimes I wonder where she gets it from. She might be a bit shy at first, but once she gets used to you, you won't be able to get rid of her," she says, laughing, her eyes filled with true happiness and love. "My husband, Henryk, is a workaholic. He loves his job, and I love him for it."

"He has his own company, right?" I inquire.

"An organization, to be precise. He works with troubled youth, helping them turn their lives around from a criminal past, getting them out of drug or alcohol addiction. That's how we met. Xavier had a serious drug problem as a teenager. He had a difficult childhood, which led to his aggression issues, he's very closed off. He never liked talking about his feelings and problems. A few years ago, he got involved with the wrong crowd and got into trouble. I couldn't handle him, didn't know what to do. Eventually, I heard about this organization and somehow managed to convince him to go there, and the rest is history."

I study the woman for a moment. She seems truly strong.

"And what is he like now?" I ask, picturing his silhouette, sharp facial features, and blue eyes. Margharet sighs and shrugs.

"He's closed off. I mean, overall, he's a big talker. He likes to party and hang out with friends, but for a while now, I don't know if everything is as he says. He's an adult now, so I can't force him to talk to me about everything, but I wish he'd open up sometimes, tell me about his day or if he has a problem... I just believe that everyone needs someone to talk to. Dealing with all your problems alone is hard. It can even be dangerous."

"That's true," I say.

I know something about that. It brings forth cruel memories and thoughts I've never admitted out loud. I close my eyes, feeling my blood pressure rise, and tighten my grip on the cup. I open my eyes, and the first thing I notice is the red streaks of blood on the white wall. I follow them down to a large pool of blood. My blood. But I'm not afraid. I don't feel pain. I feel nothing but relief. I feel light, for the first time in many years. I'm dying, but I feel like I'm finally alive.

"Are you okay?" Margharet's voice snaps me out of the hell that is my memories.

I blink a few times, then lift my gaze to her concerned face and force the most sincere smile I can muster at the moment.

"Yes, I'm sorry. I got lost in thought."

Margharet takes my hand in hers and looks at me attentively.

"Maybe it's your turn to tell me something about yourself now," she says.

I bite my lip and withdraw my hand.

"I generally don't like touch. Not because there's anything wrong with it, but unexpected touch triggers various reactions in me. I don't like it when someone yells or acts aggressively. I start panicking in those moments. That's why I try to avoid crowded places because you can't escape the shouting, touching, and chaos." I tighten my grip on the cup a bit. "My therapist said it's trauma that can be worked on. Well, so far, I haven't made much progress, but I probably need more time." I finally raise my gaze to the woman who's studying me. She processes the information I've given her for a moment. Margharet tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear and finally speaks up.

"I understand, I'll keep that in mind. Now, tell me something positive about yourself. Tell me what you like. What you love."

What do I love? I don't love. I'm not loved, and I don't think I ever have been. I don't even know if I'm capable of love. In truth, I'm not sure if I even know what it means to love. After a moment of contemplation, I manage to come up with a few things I like.

"I enjoy reading books and poetry. I also like writing, although usually it's not really worth reading. I love music and coffee." I lower my gaze to the cup and its contents. "But that last one is liked for less positive reasons."

"I understand. What kind of books do you like to read?"

"Romances," I reply without hesitation.

"A romantic at heart, huh? Me too, actually. I have a ton of romance novels, so you can read the ones that you find interesting."

A romantic? Not me. I just find solace in books where I can escape from my gray world into a better one painted in beautiful colors. I've never experienced true love, safety, or belonging to a place, and in books, I have the chance for that. Even if just for a moment, even if just a little bit.