Homesick for a cold house

It shows up on slow evenings, and it isn't a craving. It's closer to homesickness. Those ten minutes with a cigarette at the end of a long day. Nobody asking you for anything. You catch yourself missing it and panic, because missing it feels like proof you didn't really want out.

Missing looks backward. Wanting reaches forward. You can miss a house that was always cold. You can miss a friend you'd never call again. That's memory doing its job, reporting that something took up real space in your life. The ache is a report, not a request.

Grieve it honestly, good parts included. It did mark the end of the day. The quiet was real. The cigarette rented you that quiet and made every other hour restless enough to rent it again. A thing can hurt you and still be missed. You're not confused. You're grieving something that cost you plenty.

Keep the good part. Take the ten minutes anyway, same chair, same quiet, the day finally done. Just no cigarette. Tell God you miss it. He'd rather hear it than have you hide it. Over time, an ache you leave unfed thins out. That's what unfed things do. The quiet stays. The rent doesn't.