The clean smell of white soap in an empty apartment

Dear Delyara, For six years, my life was measured in milligrams, dark alleyways, and the terrifying panic of the next withdrawal. Tonight marks exactly three hundred and sixty-five days since a chemical last touched my bloodstream. I am sitting on the floor of a tiny, unfurnished studio flat that smells intensely of cheap pine floor cleaner and white bar soap. There is no TV, no bedframe—just a mattress and a single mug on the counter. But when I looked out the window at the streetlights reflecting on the wet tarmac, my hands didn't shake. My chest didn't ache for a fix. For the first time in my adult life, I am completely broke, completely alone, and completely clean. I won the war in the dark, Delyara. The silence in this room feels like a standing ovation.