One Breath

Where I come from, the air is heavy.

Not just with heat, but with things unsaid.

Every breath feels like it carries old stories I never chose.

Where I come from, pain does not knock.

It sits quietly in the corner.

You learn early that silence keeps you alive.

Where I come from, a cigarette is never just a cigarette.

It is a pause between thoughts.

A small fire to keep the past warm.

When I light one, memory lights up with it.

Her face appears, uninvited but familiar.

The one who left without explaining how to forget her.

Where I come from, love was intense and unfinished.

Promises were whispered, not written.

And when she left, she took the future with her.

Where I come from, smoke rises slowly.

Like feelings you pretend are gone.

Like words you never sent.

The first drag burns.

The second feels normal.

By the third, I am somewhere else entirely.

Where I come from, the mind remembers what the heart hides.

A smell, a song, a moment at the wrong time.

That is all it takes to reopen old doors.

Where I am now is between who I was and who I might become.

Not broken, but not whole.

Just standing still while the world keeps moving.

Where I am, nights are long.

Thoughts move faster than sleep.

And the past feels louder after midnight.

Where I am, I replay conversations that never ended properly.

What I should have said.

What she never explained.

Where I am, I understand something important.

She was not the pain.

The attachment was.

Real life teaches this slowly.

A friend once told me he quit smoking but still missed her.

That is when I learned the cigarette was only the messenger.

Where I am, I no longer blame myself for remembering.

Memory is not weakness.

It is proof that something mattered.

Where I am, I try not to fight the feeling.

I let it pass like smoke through open fingers.

Holding tighter only makes it stay longer.

Where I am, I am learning replacement, not escape.

When the urge comes, I walk.

I write one honest line instead of lighting fire.

Where I am, I ask better questions.

Do I miss her, or the version of me she saw?

Do I miss love, or being chosen?

Where I am going is quieter inside.

Not empty.

Just peaceful.

Where I am going, memories no longer control my breath.

They visit, but they don’t stay.

I decide when the door closes.

Where I am going, I am building a fire for warmth, not destruction.

Burning old habits.

Keeping lessons.

Where I am going, I forgive myself.

For staying too long.

For hoping when I should have healed.

Where I am going, I choose clarity over comfort.

Growth over nostalgia.

Breath over smoke.

Where I stand now is not failure.

It is transition.

The slow chapter before life gets good.

And when I look in the mirror,

I do not see perfection.

But I do see someone still here.

Breathing.

Learning.

Becoming.

That is enough for today.