You miss who you were out there

Some days you miss who you got to be out there. The one who announced five minutes and slipped out the door. The raised eyebrow at a friend across the room. The long pause before a hard answer. The person who always had a reason to step away. It was a role, and you were good in it.

Missing it can feel suspicious. As if wanting the character back means wanting nicotine back. It doesn't. You're not craving. You're mourning. From the inside they feel alike, but they need opposite care. A craving gets waited out. A loss gets named, and then it settles.

Now go through the kit piece by piece. The five minutes outside were yours. The friend was yours. So was the dry joke, and the willingness to stand in the cold with someone having a rough night. None of it came from the prop. The cigarette charged you admission to things that were always free.

Name the loss to God in one line. I miss who I was out there. He can hold that. Then take the five minutes anyway. Same hour, fresh air, and bring a friend if you can. Keep the dry joke. Keep the long pause. The character stays. Only the prop got cut.