There was a moment recently when my chest felt a hundred times heavier than usual.

Not dramatic. Not loud.

Just the kind of heavy that makes breathing feel intentional.

I reached for my phone the way we all do when something inside us needs witnessing. I scrolled past familiar names; the ones who knew me before I knew myself. The ones who remember my younger voice. 

I pressed call. 

The line rang.

And rang.

Later, there were messages. Soft explanations. Ordinary reasons. Life was happening elsewhere. 

And I understood.

That was the quiet ache. I understood.

I've always been quick to respond when someone says they're not okay. I am used to being the one who shows up. But adulthood rearranges availability. Love now competes with responsibilities. Phones sit on silent. Storms are scheduled after dinner.

I understand that breakups may look repetitive from the outside. I understand that maybe I've dated too much, hurt too badly, loved too openly. And perhaps, from a distance, my storms seem familiar.

That night, I didn't need fixing. I didn't need advice. I just needed someone to hear the weight in my breath and say, "I'm here."

Sometimes, that someone is different from who you expect. Sometimes, the hands that held your childhood are not the ones that steady your womanhood.

And sometimes, the lesson isn't about love disappearing.

Just about learning who can hold you in which season.