3 - Taste of freedom

LUNA

I wake up with sunlight filtering through the curtainless window of my bedroom. I stretch slowly, feeling each muscle in my body awaken with me. A smile escapes before I even notice. I look at the ceiling and raise my arms above my head, opening and closing my hands like a child asking to be picked up, but really, I’m just moving my hands. Obviously, I’m not asking the ceiling for anything.

Today, there’s no alarm ringing, no voice calling from the hallway, no obligations imposed by others. Today, all I need to do is exist—and I’ll do that with pleasure.

I get up still barefoot, feeling the cold floor beneath my feet, and walk to the bathroom. I turn on the faucet and let the water run while I look at myself in the mirror. My curls are messy, my pajamas a bit crooked, my face still puffy with sleep… but nothing that can’t be fixed.

The shower is hot and unhurried. The fragrant foam wraps around my skin like a hug, and for a few minutes, all I think about is how the water runs down my neck and relaxes my shoulders. A simple luxury I don’t always allow myself, since I’m usually rushing through things.

When I’m done, I wrap a towel around my body and sit at my vanity. I look at my curls in the mirror with a mix of laziness and determination. I grab the spray bottle, detangle with my fingers, and pick out a cream with a soft texture and floral scent. I apply it strand by strand, with care, patience… and a touch of resignation, because some strands just insist on defying logic.

“Today you’re going to behave,” I say, as if commanding a rebel army. At twenty-nine, I should be used to the fact that my hair has its own personality.

With my curls done, I move on to the next ritual: perfume. I pick one with jasmine and vanilla. A fragrance that makes me feel powerful without being too loud.

Then, I open my makeup case. Today, I won’t skimp on self-care. I start with the basics: a light foundation, concealer where it’s needed, a soft blush on my cheeks. Finally, the most delicate step: eyeliner.

I take the liquid liner with the precision of a surgeon. I draw the first line slowly, following my lash line. It comes out pretty. Thin. Slightly winged at the corner. Exactly how I wanted.

“One eye done,” I murmur, confident. “Now I just need to repeat it.”

I repeat the process on the other eye, with the same patience. But this time, the line comes out crooked. Then thicker. Then too slanted. Every attempt to fix it makes it worse.

“Oh no…” I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “Breathe, Luna.”

I grab a cotton swab, remove the line, and start over. Crooked again. I try once more and it’s too thick, so I try to match the first eye. Now they’re both uneven. And thick. And too slanted.

I set the eyeliner down on the vanity harder than necessary and stare at the mirror as if it were to blame.

“Forget eyeliner. Not today.”

I grab another cotton swab, remove everything, and leave my eyes with just a light beige shadow and some mascara. Simple. Practical. Less drama.

I sigh deeply. It’s fine. Not everything has to turn out perfect on the first day.

Still wrapped in a towel, I go to my closet and pick an outfit—a pair of beige linen pants and a white blouse knotted at the waist. Nothing too elaborate, but enough to make me feel pretty, comfortable, and ready.

Before leaving the room, I pause at the vanity again. I give myself one last look in the mirror and smile. Not because I’m perfect, but because I’m whole.

Today, I am free. And tomorrow? Tomorrow I will still be.

I grab my phone from the dresser and unlock the screen. Last night’s notifications are still there, but that’s not why I have my phone in hand.

I open the messaging app and type to my assistant:

“Hi, Monica. I’m taking today for myself. Please reschedule all meetings for tomorrow. Okay? Let me know if anything urgent comes up. Kisses!”

Monica won’t question it. She’s always understood me more than anyone at the office. She’s one of those rare people who can read between the lines and respect what isn’t said.

Phone in hand and bag on my shoulder, I grab the keys from the entryway and head out, letting the door click shut behind me. The elevator is empty, and as I ride down, I think about everything I need to buy.

“Maybe I should’ve made a list.”

Outside, the sun is already warming the concrete and the city hums with the sound of waking life. I get in the car and drive leisurely to a charming café I spotted yesterday, just a few blocks away—the kind of place I know will become a favorite. A light wooden façade, big windows, herb pots by the entrance. The kind of place that feels like it hugs you when you walk in.

I order a cappuccino and a slice of lemon cake. I sit at a table by the window, cross my legs, lean back in the chair, and let time pass.

I watch people come and go: a woman trying to calm her little boy who insists on playing with sugar packets, a couple that looks like they woke up together but not in the same mood.

I snap a photo of my coffee cup with the morning light hitting just right, but I don’t post it anywhere. I don’t need to prove anything to anyone. I want to keep these moments just for myself.

After paying the bill, I head to the supermarket. It’s not far, and for a moment I wonder how I never noticed this neighborhood before. I bought my apartment months ago and visited it every week. Maybe I never noticed because I never really looked. Maybe because now, finally, my eyes are clear.

I grab a cart and start moving through the aisles, mentally listing what I need to stock my new home. Fruits, vegetables, coffee, oats, olive oil, cleaning products, toiletries. Everything at home is still very new and very empty. But I also like the feeling of starting from scratch.

I pass through the wine section and pick a bottle with a pretty label, knowing nothing about it. Just for the joy of choosing.

At the checkout, an older woman behind me comments:

“First grocery trip for the new place?”

I smile, surprised.

“How did you guess?”

She shrugs kindly.

“You can see it in the way you look at everything. I like your aura, young lady.”

I take the comment as a gift and thank her with a nod.

In the parking lot, as I load the bags into the trunk, I feel a warm knot in my throat. A joy that almost feels like tears. I think it will take some time before I get used to this taste of freedom.