CHAPTER 2 #2
The green canvas of the woods began to blur on either side of me, the wind created by my own movement cooling the sweat on my face.
With every stride, I felt like I was physically running away from the version of myself that had allowed Morgan to disrespect her home.
I was moving forward, my lungs expanding, my heart hammering against my ribs like a fist against a door.
***
The transition from the wild, humid heat of the tracks to the cool, quiet interior of my apartment always felt like entering a different dimension.
I stepped through the door, the small brass keychain on my ring jingling softly as I locked the deadbolt behind me with a heavy, deliberate click.
The air conditioning was humming its familiar, low-pitched song, blowing a steady stream of crisp air that instantly made the sweat on my skin feel cold.
The apartment was small—just a standard one-bedroom with a combined living and kitchen area—but every single item in it had been chosen with intention.
My green pothos plants hung from the window frame, their vines cascading down toward the sill like a living curtain.
On the wall, a couple of framed prints I’d found at the local thrift store gave the space a warm, artistic energy.
This was my sanctuary now. The residual traces of the chaos that had occurred here four weeks ago had been scrubbed away with a near-religious ferocity.
I walked straight into the bedroom, my bare feet enjoying the smooth, cool texture of the linoleum tile after miles of gravel.
I pulled the damp tank top over my head, tossing it into the plastic laundry basket in the corner, followed by my shorts and sports bra.
Standing there in front of the full-length mirror attached to the closet door, I forced myself to look.
Really look.
For a long time, Morgan had a way of making me feel like I was too much of everything.
Too loud, too independent, too thick, too demanding.
But looking at my reflection now, under the unflattering, honest light of the bedroom bulb, I didn't see "too much.
" I saw abundance. I saw the rich, deep brown of my skin, glowing with the heat of the workout.
I saw the fullness of my hips, the hard-won definition beginning to show in the curves of my shoulders, and the absolute resilience staring back at me from my own dark eyes.
“You are a whole vibe, Ciara Long,” I whispered, my voice carrying that sophisticated, confident tone I used when I was handling business. “And don't you ever let some insecure little boy make you minimize your space again.”
I turned around and walked into the bathroom, turning the shower handle all the way to the right until the pipes rumbled and steam began to billow out over the top of the glass door. I waited until the small room smelled like hot metal and condensation before stepping into the stall.
The water was blistering hot, hitting my shoulders with a force that made me gasp before my body adjusted.
I closed my eyes, letting the torrent cascade down my back, over my hips, and down to the drain.
It felt like a physical purification. I reached for my bar of jasmine and shea butter soap, rubbing it between my hands until a thick, luxurious white lather covered my skin.
The scent was intoxicating, clean, and entirely feminine—a deliberate replacement for the heavy, complicated emotions I’d been dragging through the dirt all morning.
I washed myself slowly, from my neck down to my toes, treating my body with a level of care and respect I had neglected while I was busy trying to keep a sinking relationship afloat.
When I finally rinsed off and stepped out onto the plush bath mat, I felt lighter, as if a layer of old, dead skin had been washed down the drain along with the sweat.
I dried off and applied a thick layer of cocoa butter lotion, the familiar, comforting scent wrapping around me like a warm hug from my mother. I slipped into a clean, oversized gray t-shirt and a pair of soft cotton shorts, feeling completely comfortable in my own skin for the first time in weeks.
In the kitchen, the routine continued. I wasn't just surviving; I was structuring my life.
I pulled a fresh chicken breast from the refrigerator, placing it on the cutting board.
The sharp knife sliced through the meat with a clean, satisfying sound.
I seasoned it heavily—garlic powder, onion powder, smoked paprika, and a heavy pinch of cayenne pepper for that Houston heat.
When I dropped the meat into the hot iron skillet, the immediate, aggressive sizzle filled the room, followed by an aroma so rich it made my mouth water.
While the chicken cooked, I prepared a side of quinoa and sautéed some fresh spinach with minced garlic.
I ate my lunch slowly at the small two-seater table by the window, watching the occasional car pass by on the street below.
The food tasted clean, deliberate, and nourishing.
Every choice I was making now was about investing in my own longevity.
Once the dishes were washed and stacked in the drying rack, I tackled the laundry.
I stuffed the washing machine with my workout clothes from the week, pouring a generous capful of lavender-scented softener into the dispenser.
As the machine chugged to life, filling the room with its rhythmic, vibrating bassline, I turned on my living room speaker.
The opening chords of Whitney Houston’s version of “I Will Always Love You” filled the apartment, the clarity of the production making the small space feel like a theater. I grabbed an empty paper towel roll from the counter, holding it tightly like a silver microphone, and waited for the build-up.
When that massive drum hit before the final chorus dropped, I went all in.
“And I-ee-I will always love yoooouuu!”
I belted the notes out at the top of my lungs, completely off-key, my face contorted into a dramatic, theatrical mask of pure emotion.
I was dancing barefoot across the rug, spinning around with the paper towel roll, entirely unbothered by how ridiculous I might look to anyone peeking through the blinds.
I was entertaining myself, reclaiming my joy, and letting the music vibrate through the floorboards.
By the time the song faded out, I was laughing out loud, my cheeks flushing under my brown skin. It felt good to be loud in my own space without someone rolling their eyes or telling me to lower my volume.
***
Now the fun had to end eventually. And by four o'clock, the sun had shifted, casting longer, cooler shadows across my living room floor, and the reality of my goals required my presence at the desk.
I sat down in my cheap office chair, the plastic wheels groaning slightly against the tile, and opened my laptop.
I had been taking online psychology courses through the local community college, paying for the modules entirely out of the money I saved from my neighborhood babysitting gigs and the growing revenue from my YouTube channel.
Before the breakup, my channel had been a joint venture—Ciara & Morgan Tv—a couple's channel filled with prank videos, challenge vlogs, and relationship advice that, looking back, was a total joke.
The day after I kicked him out, I sat at this exact desk, my hand trembling on the mouse, and systematically deleted every single video that had his face or his voice in it.
It felt like burning down a house I’d built with my own hands.
Years of content, thousands of views, and potential monetization gone with a few clicks.
My subscriber count had dropped initially, people leaving comments asking where Morgan went, why we split, if it was all for show.
But I didn't answer them. I didn't owe the internet my pain.
Instead, I rebranded. Ciara Long Solo. I started doing reaction videos to old movies, deep dives into reality television psychology, and honest, raw vlogs about standard life transformation.
And surprisingly, the numbers started climbing again.
People liked the authenticity. They liked the fact that I didn't talk down to them from some high, academic tower, but broke down human behavior using the exact same language we used on the front porch back home.
I opened my textbook to the chapter on cognitive behavioral therapy, my pen poised over a clean page in my spiral notebook. I began to write out definitions, my handwriting neat and disciplined.
Cognitive restructuring: a psychotherapeutic process of learning to identify and dispute irrational or maladaptive thoughts.
I paused, staring at the word maladaptive.
It sounded so clean, so clinical. But in reality, it just meant the survival mechanisms that stop working when you get out of the environment that broke you.
I thought about how I used to walk on eggshells around Morgan, constantly checking his mood, trying to adjust my personality so he wouldn't feel threatened by my drive.
That was maladaptive. It was a defense mechanism that had almost cost me my own identity.
As I studied, my mind naturally drifted to the conversation I’d had with my momma on the phone last week. She had been checking up on me from Houston, her voice warm and thick with that Texas comfort that always made me feel like a little girl again.
“Ciara, baby,” she had said, the sound of her wooden spoon scraping the bottom of a pot audible over the line.
“You can't just run out all that pain on them train tracks.
You strong, I know how I raised you, but even the strongest walls need a lil' maintenance.
You need to go talk to somebody who don't know your business, somebody who can help you sort through all them boxes you got stacked up in your head.”
“Momma, I’m fine,” I had replied, leaning against my kitchen counter. “I’m working out, I’m doing my classes. I got this.”