The Weight of Breathing

Breathing became work.

Aarohi noticed it one morning while standing in the kitchen, staring at the kettle as it screamed itself hoarse. The sound pierced her skull, sharp and unnecessary. She turned it off too late, hands shaking, steam curling around her fingers like accusation.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Each breath felt deliberate, forced—as if her body needed constant reminders to continue.

She leaned against the counter, eyes closed, counting slowly the way she used to during moments of anxiety. But this was different. Anxiety had edges. This was heavy, thick, like trying to breathe underwater.

When she opened her eyes, she caught sight of herself reflected in the microwave door. The woman staring back looked unfamiliar. Cheeks hollowed, eyes rimmed red, hair pulled into a careless knot she did not remember tying.

So this is what remains, she thought.

The mail piled up by the door had grown into a quiet monument. Bills. Official envelopes. Condolence cards she hadn’t opened. One brown envelope lay apart from the rest, her name typed neatly on the front.

She picked it up with a frown.

Inside was a formal notice—words printed in cold, efficient language. Final procedures. Signatures required. Dates.

Her vision blurred.

She sat down hard on the floor, back against the door, paper trembling in her hands. The finality of it pressed against her chest harder than any memory had. This was proof. Not emotional. Not subjective. Legal.

He was gone.

A knock startled her.

Sharp. Insistent.

Aarohi’s heart raced as if she had been caught doing something forbidden. She stayed silent, hoping the sound had been imagined. The knock came again, louder this time.

“Aarohi?” a voice called. “It’s me. Open the door.”

Riya.

Her fingers curled into the paper. She did not want to be seen. Being seen meant explaining, and explaining meant breaking.

The knock softened. “Please.”

Against her better judgment, she stood and unlocked the door.

Riya looked like she had aged years in days. Her eyes widened when they met Aarohi’s face.

“Oh God,” she whispered.

Before Aarohi could step back, Riya pulled her into an embrace. Aarohi stiffened at first, unused to human contact, then something inside her cracked. She did not return the hug, but she did not pull away either.

“You disappeared,” Riya said, voice thick. “I was scared.”

“I’m still here,” Aarohi replied automatically.

Riya leaned back, studying her. “Are you?”

The question lingered between them.

They sat in the living room, the silence awkward but heavy with concern. Riya talked—about work, about mutual friends, about small, irrelevant things—as if words could build a bridge back to reality.

Aarohi listened without absorbing any of it.

Finally, Riya reached across the table and covered Aarohi’s hand. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

Something in Aarohi’s chest tightened.

Alone was all she knew now.

“I don’t know how to let anyone in,” she admitted quietly. “Every time I try, it feels like I’m betraying him.”

Riya swallowed. “Living isn’t betrayal.”

Aarohi looked away. “It feels like it is.”

Riya stayed longer than Aarohi expected. She washed the dishes, opened a window, brought light into spaces that had grown accustomed to darkness. When she finally left, promising to return, the house felt altered—less suffocating, but lonelier in a new way.

That night, Aarohi stood on the balcony, city lights flickering below like distant stars. The wind tugged at her clothes, cool and persistent.

She wondered, briefly, what it would feel like to stop breathing.

The thought scared her—not because it felt wrong, but because it felt peaceful.

She stepped back immediately, heart pounding, shame washing over her. The idea lingered long after she closed the balcony door.

In bed, sleep refused to come. Her chest ached, heavy with unshed thoughts. She pressed a hand over her heart, feeling it beat—steady, stubborn.

Still working, she thought bitterly.

Before dawn, exhaustion finally claimed her.

As she drifted off, one truth settled deep within her:

Breathing was no longer natural.

It was a choice.

And she didn’t yet know how long she could keep making it.

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