I never expected what felt like my first truly perfect day to end in an explosion of chicken soup.

Yet here I am, recovering from severe burns, and the only person I want to snuggle with is angry with me.

Let’s begin with the housing crisis.

Someone described my apartment as something that was “given” to me—a man whose background is very different from mine. I’m not going to explain his logic or pretend I know what motivates him. What I can say is that I am doing everything within my power to follow through on the life I said I wanted to build.

That day, before everything went wrong, I felt more comfortable than I could remember feeling, either alone or with another person. For a moment, I thought I could relax. I could be happy.

Then I forced open my Instant Pot while my head was somewhere else.

I can’t speak for everyone. I can only describe what happened inside me.

My kitchen brings back memories of my younger years—the ones I want so badly to forget. I am used to remembering dark times. I am not used to feeling disconnected from my body while those memories take over.

My friend was shouting, “No! Stop!”

But I wasn’t fully hearing them. I heard my own childhood voice. Images of then and now flashed together.

Then came the words: “Force it.”

The lid flew up. Soup hit my chest. I turned toward my friend, and for a terrifying moment, I thought their face was falling off.

It was vegetables sliding down their face. But in that instant, I was sure I had burned them terribly.

“Wash your face. Cool water,” I said.

Then I ran into the shower.

My friend didn’t know what I thought I had seen. They didn’t know that, in that moment, I wasn’t thinking about my own injuries. I was terrified of what I might have done to them.

Even now, after having my burns debrided today, I find myself worrying about my friend and the consequences of their impulsive choices.

I need care, too. But my attention keeps turning toward them.

Part of me feels as though my mistake was believing I could have a genuine friend—someone who shared my interests, someone I could feel comfortable with. For a moment, I let myself believe I was allowed to be happy.

Then I was sitting in the hospital alone.

From where I sat, it felt like my friend was caught up in everything that had gone wrong in their own life, while I was trying to get through what had just happened to mine. I wanted comfort. Instead, I felt distance and blame.

My story includes the parts people don’t always see: the medical ride that would not take me to the burn center, the multiple buses I took to get treatment, and the trip home afterward.

Still hurting. Still alone.

Meanwhile, my friend says I wasted the time we spent healing together. I’m trying to understand that accusation while facing my injuries and struggling to look at myself in the mirror.

Right now, fear makes everything sound permanent.

I’m afraid I’ll never be happy again. That I’ll never have enough money. That I’ll never have the life I’ve been trying so hard to build.

I’m afraid of my reflection. I’m afraid I won’t get to have my children with me again. I’m questioning a friendship that I thought would be part of my future.

I don’t know what this friendship is anymore. I know how much it mattered to me—and how much it hurts to feel alone inside it.

I want to quit trying so hard to become successful. I’m exhausted by the effort it takes just to keep moving.

But there is still something in me that plans to make it to the other side of this pain.

I still want to travel the world.

I don’t know how I will do it. I don’t know whether I’ll have a companion or whether I’ll go alone. I don’t have the money, the answers, or a clear path.

The wish is still there.

Maybe I need to learn how to be alone without treating loneliness as a prediction of the rest of my life. Right now, though, I wanted the person who shares so much with me to help me feel comfortable in our friendship.

Having things in common hasn’t given me the trust and comfort I hoped for.

And perhaps the hardest part is this: I saw in this person qualities I wished I’d had in the person I raised my children with.

I imagined a life together.

Today, I’m riding home from treatment, carrying my pain and wondering what remains of that dream.