The email was three minutes late. I remember staring at my inbox in the glow of my laptop, refreshing the page every few seconds as if persistence alone could change reality. My coffee had gone cold beside me. My shoulders were so tense they ached. I had already drafted three versions of a follow-up message

Three years ago, I was running on four hours of sleep, saying yes to everything, and genuinely believed that the tightness in my chest every Sunday evening was just me being dramatic. I had a job I’d worked hard for, a flat I was proud of, and a group chat full of people I loved.