Between Breaths

My life has been stuck since I was ten.

That was the year I was diagnosed with asthma. People say it’s just a condition, something you learn to manage, something that becomes a part of your routine. But they never talk about what it does to your mind. How it makes you aware of every breath you take. How it turns something automatic into something you have to think about. How it makes you feel fragile in a world that expects you to be strong.

After that, everything started to change — not all at once, but slowly, in ways I didn’t notice until it was already my entire life.

I stopped running like other kids. I stopped laughing without thinking about it. Even simple things started feeling like risks I didn’t want to take. And somewhere along the way, I started believing that maybe I was just… different in a way that meant I couldn’t have a normal life.

Since that day, I hardly smiled.

It feels like everything is impossible now. Not just difficult — impossible, like there’s a wall between me and everything I ever wanted. A wall I can see through but never touch.

I don’t like anything anymore. I don’t feel like doing anything anymore. People talk about dreams, about futures, about becoming someone — but those words feel distant, like they belong to someone else’s life, not mine.

Days pass in the same way. Quiet, heavy, repeating. I exist in them, but I don’t really live in them.

And sometimes… in the moments when everything is too silent, I feel like I just want to leave.

Like if I disappeared, the world would keep moving the same way it always has — and maybe that would be easier than trying to keep up with it.

My alarm rang, and all my thoughts were clearly disturbed, just like my life.

I had an appointment with my new doctor today because my previous one left the place where I live. Just like everything else in my life, things don’t stay long enough for me to get used to them.

I sat on my bed for quite some time. The same usual thoughts came back, heavy and familiar, and of course, the breathlessness followed like it always does when my mind gets too loud. It felt like I was stuck somewhere empty — a space that had nothing in it except me and my thoughts, and even those felt like too much sometimes.

Until my mom called out from outside my room.

“Lilyyy, get up.”

I let out a small breath. That was the usual thing now. Her voice pulling me back into reality, and me pretending I wasn’t already tired of it. Honestly, I didn’t feel like getting out of bed. The world outside my blanket felt too cruel, too loud, too real. I had already seen enough of it to know it doesn’t always feel like a place made for me.

It has been eight years since I was diagnosed with asthma, and those eight years have been everything no one ever wishes for — a collection of hospital visits, quiet fears, missed moments, and days that blur into each other. I learned how to live with it, yes… but living with something is not the same as living freely.

However, I am improving with my mental health, I guess.

At least that’s what I tell myself on days when getting out of bed feels like a small victory.

I got up with quiet strength and went straight to the washroom.

There were days when I felt like I would leave the world entirely, like I couldn’t keep holding on to a life that already felt heavier than me. But here I am — still existing, still moving, even if it’s just out of habit more than hope. Sometimes I wonder if there’s a difference between living and just continuing.

I turned on the tap and stared at myself for a second in the mirror, like I was trying to recognize the person standing there. Same face, same eyes — but something always felt distant, like I wasn’t fully inside my own life.

I brushed my teeth and took a shower, which, as always, made me tired and slightly breathless. The steam filled the bathroom, wrapping around me like a weight. Even the simplest things sometimes felt like they asked too much from me, like my body was always a step behind my mind.

Still, I did them anyway. Because that’s what my days had become — not easy, not exciting, just necessary.

When I got out of my room, I saw my hardworking mom waiting, her eyes already on me — tired, but still full of care, like she refused to let me feel alone even on my worst days.

“Lily, we will make it. You got this.”

Her voice was soft, but it carried something strong underneath it — the kind of strength I didn’t always have, but somehow borrowed from her when I needed it most.

She stepped closer and kissed my forehead.

And in that moment, it felt like the only real warmth in a world that often felt too cold for me. Like no matter how heavy everything got, she was still there — steady, real, holding me together in ways I couldn’t explain.

For a second, I let myself believe her.

Just for a second.

I held onto that moment for a second longer than I should have.

My mother’s kiss still felt warm on my forehead, like it was trying to remind me that I wasn’t alone, even when everything inside me said otherwise.

Then reality slowly returned.

I grabbed my bag, adjusted my clothes, and took a breath before stepping out of the house. The air outside always felt different — heavier somehow, like it carried expectations I wasn’t ready to meet.

My mom followed me to the door.

“Don’t stress too much,” she said, adjusting my scarf slightly. “It’s just a check-up.”

Just a check-up.

I nodded, even though my mind never agreed with simple sentences like that. For me, nothing was ever “just” anything. Everything had weight. Everything had meaning I couldn’t switch off.

We got into the car.

The journey started quietly.

Outside the window, the world kept moving like it always did — people walking, laughing, living like breathing was something easy. I watched them without really feeling like I was part of it. It always felt like I was sitting behind glass, close enough to see life but not close enough to touch it.

My fingers tightened around the strap of my bag.

Breathing was okay for now, but I could feel that familiar tension in my chest — not fully painful, just… there. Like a reminder that my body never completely relaxed, even when I wanted it to.

My mom glanced at me while driving.

“You’re thinking too much again,” she said gently.

I gave a small, tired smile. “I can’t help it.”

She didn’t push. She never really did. Instead, she just turned the radio on low, as if filling the silence would make the thoughts less loud.

But they were always loud anyway.

We were heading to a new hospital today. New doctor, new room, same routine. I had done this enough times to know the pattern — waiting, calling my name, sitting in a chair that never felt comfortable, answering questions I already knew the answers to.

Still, something about today felt slightly different.

I didn’t know why.

Maybe it was just the feeling of change — that small, invisible shift that life sometimes does before it forces something new on you.

I stared out of the window again.

And for a brief second, I wondered what it would feel like to wake up one day and not have to think about breathing.

Not in the medical sense.

Just… in the living sense.

The car slowed down.

The hospital building came into view.

It was bigger than it looked from a distance. White walls, glass doors, people walking in and out like it was just another normal place. But to me, it never felt normal. It felt like a place where time slowed down and thoughts got louder.

My mom parked the car.

We both sat there for a second after the engine stopped.

“You ready?” she asked softly.

I looked at the building.

No.

But I still nodded.

“Yeah,” I said quietly.

She gave me a small look — like she knew that wasn’t the full truth, but she didn’t force it.

“Okay,” she said. “We’ll go together.”

We got out of the car.

The air outside felt slightly colder than inside, or maybe it was just my mind noticing everything too much again.

My steps were slow as we walked toward the entrance.

People passed by us — a man holding a file, a woman talking on the phone, a child holding onto their mother’s hand. Everyone looked like they belonged here except me.

My fingers tightened around my bag strap.

My mom noticed.

“Relax your hand,” she said gently.I tried.

It didn’t really work.

We entered the hospital.

The smell hit first — clean, sharp, familiar in the worst way. It always felt like the kind of place where emotions weren’t allowed to stay too long.

Reception was to the right.

My mom walked ahead slightly.

“Lily Quinn,” she said. “Appointment.”

The receptionist didn’t even look surprised. Just typed, clicked, nodded.

“Please wait,” she said.

So we waited.

Waiting was never just waiting.

It was thinking too much in silence.

I sat down, placing my bag on my lap. My mom sat beside me, her hand resting lightly on mine.

“You’re shaking,” she said quietly.

“I’m not,” I replied instantly.

She raised an eyebrow slightly.

I sighed. “Okay… maybe a little.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s just a check-up.”

I didn’t answer that.

Because “just” was never just anything for me.

Minutes passed.

Then more minutes.

I watched people come and go.

Some were smiling. Some looked tired. Some looked like they had been here too many times.

I wondered which one I looked like.

My mom noticed I was zoning out.

“Do you want water?” she asked.

“No,” I said softly.

She nodded, then leaned back.

Silence again.

Finally, a voice called out.

“Lily?”

My body reacted before my mind did.

I stood up.

That name in a hospital always felt heavier than it should. Like it belonged to a version of me that existed only in waiting rooms and appointments.

My mom stood with me.

“We’ll go,” she said.

We walked down the corridor.

Each step felt slower than the last.

Door after door passed by.

Until we stopped.

“Room 4.”

My mom looked at me.

“You okay?”

I swallowed.

“Yeah,” I said again.

But my voice didn’t sound convinced, even to me.

We went inside.

The doctor was already there.

He stood up slightly. “Hi, Lily. Please sit.”

I sat.

My mom sat beside me.

The doctor opened my file.

“So,” he said gently, “how have things been lately with your breathing?”

I hesitated.

“Same,” I said.

“Same as in… stable, or same as in uncomfortable?”

My mom jumped in a little.

“She gets breathless sometimes, especially when she’s stressed or tired.”

He nodded, writing something down.

“And medication?” he asked.

“She takes it regularly,” my mom said.

I nodded.

“Yes.”

The doctor looked at me now.

“Do you feel anxious often?”

That question made something in my chest tighten slightly.

I didn’t answer immediately.

“I guess,” I said finally.

He didn’t push too hard.

“Alright,” he said calmly. “Your condition seems stable overall. But stress can affect breathing a lot, so try to avoid overthinking things too much.”

I almost laughed.

Try not to overthink.

If only it worked like that.

He closed the file gently.

“I’ll adjust your dosage slightly, just to help you feel more comfortable. Nothing serious.”

My mom nodded. “Thank you, doctor.”

I stayed quiet.

The appointment ended.

We stood up.

“Take care,” the doctor said.

We walked out.

The corridor felt longer on the way back.

My mom glanced at me.

“You did fine,” she said.

I shrugged slightly.

“It’s just… a routine,” I replied.

She didn’t respond immediately.

Then she said softly, “Still. You did fine.”

We left the hospital.

Outside, the air felt different again.

Not better. Not worse.

Just different.

We got into the car.

The silence returned, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

My mom started the engine.

As we drove, she spoke softly.

“I’ll make something nice when we get home. You should rest today.”

“I always rest,” I said.

She smiled a little. “Not properly.”

I leaned my head against the window.

“I’m fine,” I said, even though I wasn’t really thinking about it.

She didn’t argue.

The road blurred outside.

People, shops, trees — all passing like a life I was close to but not inside of.

My breathing felt slightly easier than before.

Not fixed.

Just lighter.

My mom’s voice broke the silence again.

“I’m proud of you, you know.”

That made me look at her.

“For what?”

“For getting through it,” she said simply.

I didn’t know what to say to that.

So I just looked away again.

But something in my chest felt a little less heavy.

Just a little.

We reached home.

Everything looked the same as always.

Same gate. Same walls. Same quiet waiting inside.

I stepped out of the car.

My mom closed the door gently.

“You’re home,” she said.

I nodded.

“Yeah.”

And we walked inside.