The walk you get to keep

A door shuts somewhere in the house, harder than anyone meant. The air still holds what got said. Your body's running hot with nowhere to put it, and your hand is already on the doorknob. You know the next part by heart. Out, smoke, back in forty minutes with your face fixed. It postponed everything and solved nothing.

Keep the good half of that instinct. Leaving a room before you say something worse is wisdom. It never needed a passenger. The cigarette only rode along because you always packed the two together. It stretched a ten minute cool down into forty and called it calming down.

This time you get the walk without it. Out the door, to the end of the block and back, pockets empty. Ten minutes is plenty. Your pulse settles on its own, the way it always could. Then comes the part the old ritual kept eating. You get to come back while coming back still counts. Not fixed. Not with the whole fight solved. Just back, on purpose.

Halfway down the block, hand God the heat. Cool me down before I walk back in. Then walk back in and sit where they can see you, or near enough. Nothing needs saying yet. Being in the house on purpose is already repair. You can walk out angry and walk back in free.