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Reaching Back
It didn’t happen suddenly.
Nothing in healing ever really does.
There wasn’t a moment when I declared myself whole. No internal applause. No final battle won.
Just small shifts I almost missed -- until I realized I hadn’t thought about the heaviness in a while.
I still kept to myself, mostly.
Still moved through the world with a quiet step.
But there was more light in the way I carried things.
And when I saw it -- the same kind of weight I once wore, in someone else -- I recognized it without needing words.
He was newer to the silence. Still learning to wear the mask without letting it slip.
We crossed paths a few times-- at a café I now visited, at a local workshop I’d dared to try.
He always smiled, politely. Too politely. The kind of smile that asks not to be asked anything deeper.
One day, I found him sitting alone. Same bench. Same kind of dusk.
Something in me paused.
Not out of duty. Not because I had answers.
But because I remembered how much it meant when someone stayed.
So I sat down beside him.
We didn’t speak at first.
I didn’t try to fill the silence.
I just let it stretch gently between us, like a thread that hadn’t decided whether to hold or break.
Then, quietly, he said,
“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”
It wasn’t a cry for help.
It wasn’t dramatic.
Just honest.
Bare and trembling, the way truth often is in the beginning.
I didn’t rush to respond.
Didn’t say “It gets better” or “I understand.”
Because I knew -- sometimes, the worst thing you can do to pain is to rush it.
So I simply said,
“You don’t have to know. You’re still here. That’s something.”
His shoulders dropped the tiniest bit.
We sat there until the streetlights flickered on.
Not as strangers.
Not as saviors.
Just two people who had once been lost.
And one who had learned how to sit through the dark.
Ashes and After : 11 The Day I Didn't Notice the Weight
Previous Chapter: https://www.chatzozo.com/forum/threads/ashes-and-after-10-pages-that-bled.62625/ ______________________________ The Day I Didn't Notice the Weight I didn’t realize it had gotten lighter until I noticed I wasn’t holding my breath anymore. There was no milestone. No...
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Reaching Back
It didn’t happen suddenly.
Nothing in healing ever really does.
There wasn’t a moment when I declared myself whole. No internal applause. No final battle won.
Just small shifts I almost missed -- until I realized I hadn’t thought about the heaviness in a while.
I still kept to myself, mostly.
Still moved through the world with a quiet step.
But there was more light in the way I carried things.
And when I saw it -- the same kind of weight I once wore, in someone else -- I recognized it without needing words.
He was newer to the silence. Still learning to wear the mask without letting it slip.
We crossed paths a few times-- at a café I now visited, at a local workshop I’d dared to try.
He always smiled, politely. Too politely. The kind of smile that asks not to be asked anything deeper.
One day, I found him sitting alone. Same bench. Same kind of dusk.
Something in me paused.
Not out of duty. Not because I had answers.
But because I remembered how much it meant when someone stayed.
So I sat down beside him.
We didn’t speak at first.
I didn’t try to fill the silence.
I just let it stretch gently between us, like a thread that hadn’t decided whether to hold or break.
Then, quietly, he said,
“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”
It wasn’t a cry for help.
It wasn’t dramatic.
Just honest.
Bare and trembling, the way truth often is in the beginning.
I didn’t rush to respond.
Didn’t say “It gets better” or “I understand.”
Because I knew -- sometimes, the worst thing you can do to pain is to rush it.
So I simply said,
“You don’t have to know. You’re still here. That’s something.”
His shoulders dropped the tiniest bit.
We sat there until the streetlights flickered on.
Not as strangers.
Not as saviors.
Just two people who had once been lost.
And one who had learned how to sit through the dark.
------- and they continue to heal -------
The End
The End
