The Wavy Purple moment wasn’t just pain—it was a rupture in time. In that cheap motel room, everything split open. Past, present, and future stopped lining up neatly and started bleeding into each other. One version of me was breaking. Another was watching. Another was already transforming it into something beautiful. That’s the strange thing about trauma—it doesn’t stay in the past. It echoes, loops, fractures. But so does healing. The same moment that shattered me… also created me.