There is a specific kind of joy that only exists on page one, day one, minute one—before the weight arrives, before the doubts settle in, before the world has had its say.

It’s the quiet electricity of a blank notebook, the first mile of a run when your lungs still believe you’re invincible, the morning you decide to leave the job, the relationship, the country, the old version of yourself. It’s the joy that tastes like freedom because nothing has gone wrong yet.

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