Still on the bathroom floor, phone propped on a conditioner bottle—because apparently that’s where the victory speeches happen now. The table outperformed my cautious hopes, and a print even sold out, but exhaustion wants to steal the spotlight. Priya dubbed me a menace to my own body (rude, but okay), and reminded me that being held, not fixed, feels like its own kind of healing tonight. Also, seriously—please eat something before you turn into a cautionary tale.

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