little breaths.
small pauses.
acknowledgments.
one breath at a time.
little breaths are not tools.
they don’t ask you to fix or explain anything.
they don’t ask you to make sense of it.
they’re moments that needed somewhere to land.
something you can download,
save,
or sit with for a moment here.
nothing to complete.
nothing to fix.
you don’t have to do anything with it at all.
each little breath is a single page
for when your life keeps shrinking around care.
missing out.
you imagine a few hours where your life isn’t ruled
by a schedule you didn’t choose —
and then it changes again.
for when something heavy cracks open for a moment.
laughter.
sometimes laughter happens anyway —
inside things that are still hard,
still unfinished.
for when everything is heavy
this sucks.
you keep going anyway.
without relief.
without answers.