"The most terrifying thing is to accept oneself completely."
— Carl Jung
Ailín's new apartment smelled like fresh beginnings…
and unopened boxes.
Cardboard everywhere.
Half-built furniture.
A single lamp plugged into the wrong outlet.
She sat on the floor, wrapped in a blanket, knees pulled to her chest, letting a few tears fall quietly.
Not dramatic ones.
No sobbing soundtrack.
Just tears that slipped out when no one was watching.
What Ailín hadn't anticipated was the emotional vacuum of moving.
The house she had shared for almost twenty-five years was no longer hers.
No familiar echoes.
No shared routines.
No "we'll talk later."
Just silence.
And space.
Too much space.
I waited for the collapse.
The emotional implosion.
The meltdown—
my specialty.
Instead, she wiped her face with the back of her hand, lifted her chin, and said:
"I'm tired… but I'm not broken."
…
EXCUSE ME?
Not broken?
I searched my internal catalog of dramatic responses.
Nothing came up.
A professional humiliation for a shadow like me.
Then she did something even more alarming.
She bought a plant.
A PLANT.
Who buys photosynthesis during heartbreak?
Normal humans buy ice cream.
They binge-eat their emotions.
They choose chocolate, not chlorophyll.
But no—my human said, "Let me nurture life," instead of "Let me inhale a family-size tub of mint chocolate chip like a respectable heartbroken adult."
I watched her place the plant near the window.
"You do know it can die, right?" I said. "Like… statistically speaking. Just warning you."
"It's fine," she replied calmly. "I'll take care of it."
That sentence made me nervous.
She woke up early for walks.
Not power walks.
Not escape walks.
Just… walks.
She cooked meals just for herself.
Plated them.
Sat at the table.
Alone.
And didn't rush.
She wrote tiny reflections in a notebook that glowed in ways I didn't approve of.
She treated her mind like it mattered.
And for the first time since I existed beside her…
I didn't know my place.
She wasn't collapsing anymore.
She was building.
And I—
for all my dramatic flair—
stood there realizing something deeply unsettling:
What happens to a shadow
when the woman who created her
is no longer afraid of the dark?
I didn't know.
And I hate not knowing.
…
The first invitation came from Andrea.
"Dinner. Friday. No excuses," she texted.
"Also: wear real clothes. Not emotional pajamas."
Ailín stared at the message.
Her stomach fluttered.
"I don't know if I'm ready," she whispered.
I appeared instantly, arms crossed.
"Oh no," I said. "We are not canceling plans. You did not survive a separation, a life reset, and a houseplant just to become a hermit."
"I'm nervous," Ailín admitted.
"About what? Talking? Eating? Existing in public after 8 p.m.?"
She sighed. "About being… me. Alone."
I tilted my head.
"Well, congratulations. You're about to meet her."
…
Andrea chose a small restaurant. Warm lights. Loud laughter.
Life happening without permission.
Ailín sat across from her, hands wrapped around a glass of water like it was a life raft.
Andrea studied her carefully.
"You look… lighter," she said.
Ailín smiled. "Terrified. But lighter."
"That's growth," Andrea nodded. "Fear with good posture."
I leaned toward Ailín's ear.
"Don't get drunk. Remember, we're responsible now. You hydrate. You eat. You don't cry in the bathroom."
Andrea laughed. "Why are you smiling like that?"
"No reason," Ailín said quickly.
They talked for hours.
About work.
About nothing and everything.
Andrea told her, gently but firmly:
"You didn't fail. You evolved."
That sentence lodged itself somewhere deep.
On the walk home, Ailín breathed differently.
Like someone who had remembered how to occupy space.
…
Of course, Oscurita had opinions.
"So," I said, pacing. "Let's establish some rules."
"Rules?" Ailín raised an eyebrow.
"Yes. You are not a college student. You are not twenty-five. Your knees deserve respect."
She laughed.
"You go to bed at a reasonable hour. You stretch. You don't text emotionally past midnight."
"Are you… parenting me?"
"Unfortunately, yes. Someone has to."
She unlocked her apartment door, stepped inside, and paused.
The silence didn't feel as heavy tonight.
"I'm okay," she said softly.
I crossed my arms tighter.
"I know," I muttered. "That's what's terrifying."
…
Some nights were still hard.
The loneliness crept in quietly.
Tried to convince her she had made a mistake.
I showed up, as expected.
"See?" I whispered. "This is when people regret their decisions."
She listened.
Then breathed.
Then answered me.
"This is discomfort," she said. "Not danger."
Rude.
Very rude.
She wasn't denying me anymore.
She was… managing me.
…
Slowly, Ailín began to reconstruct herself.
Not from what she had lost—
but from what she could still create.
And I watched.
Learning.
Adjusting.
Because rebuilding looks different than breaking.
And if she was becoming someone new…
then I, Oscurita—
shadow, critic, reluctant guardian—
would have to evolve too.
Whether I liked it or not.
And honestly?
I didn't.
That's when I realized something deeply inconvenient:
my human wasn't falling apart anymore.
She was learning how to live.
And apparently…
I was going to have to supervise.