Learning to Breathe Again

Healing doesn't come like a thunderstorm.

It comes like a soft rain —

Steady, persistent, washing you clean

One aching drop at a time.

The apartment was quiet after Kiaan left.

Too quiet.

I spent the first few days in bed, barely moving.

I told myself I was resting.

But really, I was mourning.

Not just Kiaan.

Not just my father.

I was mourning the girl I used to be.

The girl I never let myself become.

One morning, I forced myself into the shower.

I stood under the hot water, shaking, watching pieces of myself swirl down the drain.

Then, on impulse, I grabbed a pair of scissors and cut my hair.

Chunk by uneven chunk, until it barely brushed my shoulders.

It wasn't pretty.

But it felt like shedding skin.

Like letting go of a version of myself that had been carrying too much weight for too long.

I started going for walks at night.

I didn't know where I was going.

I just let my feet carry me through the city, breathing in the cool air, listening to the hum of life around me.

It made me feel small.

But not in a bad way.

In a way that reminded me the world kept moving —

Even when my heart felt like it had stopped

One evening, I passed a bookstore.

I almost kept walking.

But something made me stop.

I went inside, trailing my fingers along the spines of books until I found a poetry collection.

I opened it randomly —

And the first poem I read felt like a punch to the chest.

You do not have to forgive the ones who hurt you

To set yourself free.

I bought the book and went home.

I read it cover to cover, sobbing like every page was unraveling a knot inside me.

I started journaling again.

Not carefully.

Not neatly.

I wrote like I was bleeding.

Pages and pages of words I'd never said out loud.

Letters to my father, to my younger self, to Kiaan.

I never sent them.

But writing them made the ache a little quieter.

I called my mom.

We hadn't talked since I left my father's house.

She cried when she heard my voice.

We talked for hours —

About her marriage, her regrets, the way she stayed because she thought she had to.

I didn't blame her.

I just told her I loved her.

And for the first time, I meant it without feeling bitter.

I started therapy.

The first few sessions were awful.

I cried so much I left with swollen eyes and a pounding headache.

But my therapist just sat there, steady and patient, like she wasn't afraid of my wreckage.

She helped me name my pain.

Helped me understand that trauma wasn't my fault —

But healing was my responsibility.

I hated hearing that.

But I needed to hear it.

Months passed.

And slowly, things got softer.

I started painting again — messy, abstract pieces that made no sense but felt good to create.

I joined a poetry reading group, even read one of my own pieces.

I reconnected with old friends, laughing until my stomach hurt, remembering what it felt like to be loved without conditions.

And one morning, I woke up and realized I hadn't thought about my father in weeks.

Not in anger.

Not in sadness.

Just… not at all.

One night, I wrote a final letter to Kiaan.

I told him everything.

How I'd hated myself.

How I'd been terrified of love.

How losing him shattered me — but also saved me.

I didn't ask him to come back.

I just thanked him.

For showing me what love could feel like.

For loving me even when I couldn't love myself.

I sealed the letter.

But I didn't send it.

Because I realized I didn't need to.

I wrote a poem that night:

I thought healing would feel like wings —

Like breaking free.

But it feels more like roots.

Like grounding myself in a body I spent years trying to escape.

Like holding my own hand,

And finally, finally feeling safe.

I slept peacefully for the first time in years.

And when I woke up —

There was a text on my phone.

From Kiaan.

"Can we talk?"

He texted every night

"Even if you are not talking to me baby, remember I ain't going anywhere. Good Night my Love take care call me when you feel like I am right here!"