Two months in, he emailed me three pages of contrition: therapy sessions, trips to the crash site, pleas for “a second chance.” I produced a filter sending every message from his address to trash.

Six months later, my townhouse was filled with laughter. David cooked, friends crowded my thrift-store plates, and the silver lines on my forehead were no longer scars but proof of survival.

One quiet Thursday, I sat on the couch with a book, the afternoon sun warming my face. For the first time in years, the day was free of dread. Just a simple Thursday, filled with possibility.

The collision had nearly ended me. Instead, it gave me back my life.