I thought I was just being cautious about leftovers, but really I was circling the same stale thoughts every day, afraid to admit how lost I felt. Standing in the kitchen, staring at that tuna salad, I saw myself: technically still “fine,” but well past my emotional expiration date. When Peregrine walked in, took the bowl from my hands, and said, “You don’t have to punish yourself with bad tuna,” she wasn’t just talking about food. She was naming what I’d been doing for months—surviving on scraps of self-worth, pretending I didn’t notice the smell.
Her solution was painfully simple: start small. A list on the table. A plan that didn’t demand instant transformation, just the next right step. That quiet, steady care pulled me forward until I could stand on my own again. And when it was her turn to fall, I finally understood: the real expiration date is the day we stop checking on each other.
