She looked at herself in the mirror, and started to see the shards of her former self. She was stuck between two worlds. One of who she used to be prior to the battle. One where she is putting the pieces together. Still fading in and out, she holds strong.

She steadied her breath, watching the woman in the mirror flicker like a candle caught in a draft. Some days she felt solid, anchored. Other days she was nothing but smoke—memories, instincts, and echoes of who she used to be. The battle had carved something out of her, but it had also left space for something new to grow.
She lifted her chin.

The shards didn’t frighten her anymore. They glimmered. They reminded her that she had survived, even when she wasn’t sure she would. Each fragment held a story—some painful, some powerful, all undeniably hers.

And though she still drifted between worlds—the before and the becoming—she could feel the shift. The pieces were no longer scattered at her feet. They were gathering. Aligning. Learning the shape of her again.

She wasn’t whole yet. But she was no longer lost.

And in that quiet, trembling space between who she was and who she was becoming, she realized something she hadn’t dared to believe:

Strength wasn’t the absence of breaking.
It was the courage to rebuild while still fractured.