Previous Chapter:
____________________________________
The Ghost Room
It had been months since I’d gone there.
That café—the one tucked behind the bookstore with the squeaky chairs and bad jazz playing on loop.
It used to be ours.
Well… not really.
But I had once sat there across from someone who made me believe I mattered.
And when that belief broke, so did the place.
I stopped going.
Avoided the street.
Took longer routes home just to keep my heart from flinching.
But that day, something pulled me in.
Maybe it was the smell of rain, or the fact that I was tired of running from ghosts.
Maybe it was nothing at all - just a quiet moment when I thought, Let’s see if it still hurts.
I walked in.
The bell above the door still jingled the same way.
The chairs still squeaked.
The coffee still smelled burnt.
But the weight in my chest?
It didn’t slam into me like it used to.
It sat there… heavy, yes—but not unbearable.
I sat at our old table.
Not out of nostalgia, but defiance.
You do not get to own this place forever.
I ordered a tea - something we never shared. Something just mine.
As I stirred the cup, the memory returned.
That day.
That conversation.
The way their eyes shifted when they started pulling away.
I used to replay it in my head like a crime scene.
What did I say wrong?
What could I have changed?
But now, sitting there… it felt different.
I didn’t want them back.
I didn’t even feel angry.
I just… saw it.
For what it was.
Two people. One growing. One shrinking.
No villain. Just misaligned hearts and bad timing.
I took a sip. The tea was bitter.
But I didn’t mind.
And that’s when I knew - this wasn’t healing because it didn’t hurt anymore.
It was healing because I could sit with the hurt.
Feel it. Acknowledge it.
And not fall apart.
When I left the café, the street didn’t feel haunted anymore.
It felt like mine again.
Not a battlefield.
Not a grave.
Just a street.
And maybe that’s what healing is:
Reclaiming places.
Reclaiming memories.
Reclaiming yourself.
One ghost at a time.
Ashes and After : 7 The Weight of Small Things
Previous Chapter: https://www.chatzozo.com/forum/threads/ashes-and-after-6-the-quiet-rebellion.61628/ _________________________ Chapter 7: The Weight of Small Things No one tells you how exhausting healing is. People talk about “choosing yourself,” like it’s a one-time vow. Like once you...
www.chatzozo.com
____________________________________
The Ghost Room
It had been months since I’d gone there.
That café—the one tucked behind the bookstore with the squeaky chairs and bad jazz playing on loop.
It used to be ours.
Well… not really.
But I had once sat there across from someone who made me believe I mattered.
And when that belief broke, so did the place.
I stopped going.
Avoided the street.
Took longer routes home just to keep my heart from flinching.
But that day, something pulled me in.
Maybe it was the smell of rain, or the fact that I was tired of running from ghosts.
Maybe it was nothing at all - just a quiet moment when I thought, Let’s see if it still hurts.
I walked in.
The bell above the door still jingled the same way.
The chairs still squeaked.
The coffee still smelled burnt.
But the weight in my chest?
It didn’t slam into me like it used to.
It sat there… heavy, yes—but not unbearable.
I sat at our old table.
Not out of nostalgia, but defiance.
You do not get to own this place forever.
I ordered a tea - something we never shared. Something just mine.
As I stirred the cup, the memory returned.
That day.
That conversation.
The way their eyes shifted when they started pulling away.
I used to replay it in my head like a crime scene.
What did I say wrong?
What could I have changed?
But now, sitting there… it felt different.
I didn’t want them back.
I didn’t even feel angry.
I just… saw it.
For what it was.
Two people. One growing. One shrinking.
No villain. Just misaligned hearts and bad timing.
I took a sip. The tea was bitter.
But I didn’t mind.
And that’s when I knew - this wasn’t healing because it didn’t hurt anymore.
It was healing because I could sit with the hurt.
Feel it. Acknowledge it.
And not fall apart.
When I left the café, the street didn’t feel haunted anymore.
It felt like mine again.
Not a battlefield.
Not a grave.
Just a street.
And maybe that’s what healing is:
Reclaiming places.
Reclaiming memories.
Reclaiming yourself.
One ghost at a time.
