February arrived laughing.

Real laughter.

Stomach unclenching.

Jaw loosening.

Shoulders dropping—

realising, finally, how high

I held them.

Happiness didn’t visit.

She unpacked.

And once the noise settled

something inconvenient stirred.

Boredom.

Not sad.

Not spiralling.

Not coping.

Bored.

Which is what happens

when you smother

the fire.

My roles were assigned:

Mummy.

Fixer.

Stabiliser of chaos.

Efficient. Capable. Useful.

Very impressive—

from the outside.

February held a mirror

without the job description.

A human.

A brain that craves friction.

A body that wants movement.

A future that craves more

than maintenance.

So: writing.

Not romantically.

Sentence by sentence.

Building something

that is mine.

A student of pavement.

The quiet click of

traction returning.

It wasn’t dramatic.

It was steady.

Momentum.

An old friend.

February found my footing—

not through crisis

but through choice.

And then—

tears.

A goodbye—

not mine to control.

Old cat.

Toothless. Drooling.

Infuriating and perfect.

A creature that rested

heart to heart,

as if I could be safety.

Grief is strange—

it does not check your status

before it moves in.

Laughter and loss.

Structure and softness.

Boredom and beginnings.

Not a recovery month.

A living one.