After a year filled with struggle, Luna finally landed a job—at a modest company, but a start was a start. She worked so diligently and with such grace that promotions followed like dominoes. Soon, her salary reached a comfortable 40,000 bucks , enough to resurrect her life piece by piece: a cozy new home, thoughtful décor, medications for her mother's aching legs—even hopeful dreams of stability and warmth took shape.
Her mother, once a practising doctor, had stepped away from clinic work. The pain in her legs had become too much, and she'd sold hospital land to manage household expenses—and, perhaps, to keep Luna from having fewer faults to point out. Still resentful, she kept her sharp remarks to Luna as her daily exercise routine.
Meanwhile, Nick remained persistently jobless—but steadfast. He shouldered the chores, supported Luna's mother, and became the emotional glue in that fragile household. He was no knight in shining armor—more like a slightly battered but endlessly loyal handyman of the heart.
Luna, though, still looked weary. Her glow had dimmed. Hair hadn't seen shampoo in weeks (once a month—she joked it was a shampoo austerity measure). Meals were thrice boiled—and even that counted as a culinary event. She fluctuated between skinny and "vaguely plump," and her mirror reflected someone exhausted by survival. Gone was the well-groomed, confident woman; now stood someone blurred by grief and gravity.
Then, something changed. Nick, finally landing not one but three jobs—office employee by day, college professor by afternoon, and table tennis coach by evening—turned into Luna's personal renaissance crew. He orchestrated "holidays" for her—little pockets of calm. He helped her re-learn her worth through words and gestures: surprise tea in bed, goofy slipper dances in the kitchen ("Why are your socks mismatched?" she'd groan, trying not to smile). Slowly, the glow returned.
Narcoleptic optimism? Maybe. But she looked like herself again—wristwatch ticking with possibilities, dark circles still whispering late nights, but her eyes flickered with strength. She began to care about her reflections again—brushing hair, picking clothes with a semblance of choice, not just comfort.
In her heart, though, Alex still lived. She chastised him—how could he forget her? Cheated on her with Elsa! But then she paused. No, I can't love him again… thought come in her mind
With a bittersweet sigh, she realized: she didn't need him now. But… would she meet him again? Would she? Deep down, a soft pulse of longing remained—hope wrapped in irony, hurt coated with love.
She met the day with a shaky smile and whispered to her reflection:
"I'm glowing again—for me. But if our paths cross, I won't be the same girl who waited. I'll be stronger."