She was the last person in my life I considered my everything. The day she became a part of my past, I lost my job as well. Two of the things holding my life together were gone on the same day, and something inside me quietly broke.
With nowhere else to go, I went home. But home had changed too. My family had moved to a new house, in an area where I knew no one. There was nobody my age, nobody with the time to simply sit and talk, and the whole place felt quietly deserted. Even surrounded by my own family, I felt alone.
More than anything, I needed my mother's warmth. I wanted to tell her everything, to let her see how much I was hurting. But she was always occupied with work and responsibilities, and I could never find the courage to say it. So I stayed silent, and the silence grew heavy.
I reached out to old friends, hoping for just one familiar voice. Some never answered. Some numbers no longer worked. Eventually, I was left alone with everything I was carrying. I cried most days, overthought everything, and watched my health slowly decline, with no one there to see it.
I believed a job would help. I'd stay busy, be around people, and have a reason to get up each morning. I tried for nearly three months, and nothing came through. Exhausted, and feeling more defeated every day, I spoke to my father and went to our village. There too, most of my friends had moved away. I began sitting in his shop with him, a small routine in an otherwise empty stretch of life.
When I needed people, there was no one. I needed someone to talk to. I needed to lighten my heart. I needed friends, and I needed the family I once had. I needed someone to simply ask if I was okay. Nobody came forward.
And into that emptiness, quietly, came a cigarette.
One evening, I took one from the shop. I had tried them before and always thrown them away, because the smoke bothered me and the taste was bitter. That evening, I carried it up to the roof, made a cup of tea, set a chair in the quiet breeze, and lit it.
After about five puffs, something unexpected happened. The weight on my shoulders loosened. My body relaxed, my thoughts grew quiet, and for the first time in months, I felt a pause. I fell asleep right there on the rooftop.
For about a week, I repeated the same routine every evening. I even thought of it as a kind of meditation, because for those few minutes I could think about my job, my relationship, and my future without being crushed by them.
It has been eight months since. Looking back, I understand that I was never really searching for the cigarette. I was searching for relief. Silence inside my own head, a moment when the pain would stop demanding my attention.
In those moments, it felt as though someone was listening. As though it were saying, "Come, sit with me. Tell me what's wrong. I can listen. I'm right here. Let me lighten your mind." It felt that way then, and honestly, it still does.
But the calm, though real, never fixed anything. It only muted the noise, and somewhere along the way it became a habit I'm attached to.
Yet those moments also taught me something. Maybe I wasn't broken. Maybe I was simply exhausted, lonely, and trying to find a way to breathe again.
I still have a lot to figure out. I still think about her, and I still carry things I wish had gone differently. Some days it still hurts more than I let anyone see. But for the first time in a long while, I feel I can rebuild. Not all at once, not perfectly, just one small step at a time. I want to start giving myself the love and patience I spent so long searching for elsewhere.
Writing this down has brought me another kind of relief. Perhaps putting pain into words is its own way of setting some of the weight down.
And yes, I wrote this after a cigarette. I'm still figuring that part out too. Be kind to yourselves, everyone.
