There are names that still catch in my throat. The sound of them wraps around my spine like muscle memory, and suddenly I’m bracing for something that isn’t coming – but once did.

There are rooms that feel louder than they should. Even in silence, my body scans for exits, reads faces, prepares to shrink. As if the walls still remember how it felt to be afraid there.

Healing didn’t erase the triggers. It just taught me how to breathe through them. But that breath still feels stolen, not given.

I’ve outgrown the pain, but not the reflexes. I laugh softer in certain spaces. I sit closer to the edge of the seat. I wait for tension, even when no one’s raised their voice.

This is what survival does. It teaches you to remember, even when you want to forget. It trains you to stay ready.

And some part of me still is. Ready, alert, and healing in layers no one sees.