Between the Last Breath and the Next

The wind carried her words like whispers through the trees, scattering them into the open, empty sky. She sat on the edge of a worn gravestone, her fingers tracing the faint etchings of a name long eroded by time. The stone was cool beneath her touch, grounding her as her thoughts meandered between questions and confessions.

“It’s funny,” she began, her voice low but steady, as if addressing a friend who had been waiting for her words. “I always find myself here. I’ve tried to walk away. I’ve tried to forget, but… here I am again. Drawn back to you. Or maybe to me.”

The wind shifted, lifting her hair in playful tendrils. She sighed, staring at the name she could no longer make out but felt deeply familiar. “You know, I’ve spent so many nights wondering what it’s like… that last heartbeat. Do you think about the things you’ve done? Or the things you’ll never get to do? Do you feel fear? Relief? I used to think death would feel like falling asleep, like slipping into a dream.”

Her hands dropped to her lap, fingers fiddling with the hem of her coat. “When I was nine, I wanted to die. I don’t even remember why, not really. It’s not like life was particularly hard. But I knew what death was. I’d seen it in my grandfather’s still face, in the way people talked about him like he had simply moved to some unreachable place. I thought maybe I’d join him there. I didn’t even love him that much,” she admitted with a sad laugh. “It wasn’t about him. It was about the quiet. The escape.”

She tilted her head back, letting the pale winter sun warm her cheeks. “But I didn’t do it. Something stopped me. Music, maybe. I threw myself into it, creating these… other versions of me. Better versions. I made myself the hero of every song I listened to. I wasn’t just surviving; I was rewriting myself, one melody at a time.”

The silence hung heavy for a moment before she continued, her voice softer now. “But even that changed. The songs stopped being escapes. I started seeing myself as a side character, as if even in my own dreams, I didn’t deserve to be the center of the story. Death found me there, too, creeping into the corners of my mind, reminding me that no matter where I went, I couldn’t outrun myself.”

Her gaze fell to the ground, her fingers brushing against the brittle grass. “Do you think it’s weak to want to stop fighting? People say it is. They call you selfish or lazy or weak, like they know what it’s like to carry this kind of weight every single day. I’ve done everything I can to keep going, but it’s never enough. I see people living, really living, and I just… hate myself more.”

The wind stilled for a moment, as if holding its breath, waiting for her next words. “I had this theory,” she murmured. “That when we die, we wake up in a different life. Like all of this is just a dream, and the moment it ends, we open our eyes somewhere else, as someone else. I used to think maybe I’d wake up as one of those characters I pretended to be. Someone stronger. Someone who deserved happiness.”

Her voice cracked, and she paused, swallowing hard. “But what if the other side is worse? What if I wake up and it’s just… this, all over again? What if there’s no escape, no better version of me? What then?”

She glanced back at the gravestone, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You’ve probably heard all of this before, haven’t you? You’re probably tired of me sitting here, talking to the wind, to myself, to you. Maybe you’re laughing at me from wherever you are. Or maybe you’re crying with me. I don’t know.”

Rising to her feet, she dusted off her coat and took a step back, her eyes lingering on the grave. She felt drawn to it, as if it held a part of her she had long forgotten. The faded letters seemed to hold secrets she couldn’t quite decipher. Shaking her head, she turned away and walked into the wind, leaving the pull of the grave behind her, unaware that she had been standing at the resting place of her own past life.