Keeping Habit

“You don’t realise what held you together until you're somewhere that doesn’t.”

Standing just within the shelter of the tent, I paused, allowing my eyes a moment to adjust to the shift in light. Outside, the campfire still crackled softly, its amber glow offering a sense of companionship against the vast unknown. Inside, however, the light diminished to a gentle gloom, broken only by faint streaks of firelight that slipped through the small gaps in the fabric. Shadows stretched lazily across the floor, soft-edged and undemanding.

The transition from outside to in felt symbolic somehow—like stepping across the threshold between worlds. This was no longer simply a storage tent. It was mine now: a base, a sanctuary, a medical centre, a bedroom. A new beginning. And yet, with only the bags of groceries and medical supplies scattered sparsely around the edges, the tent felt absurdly large. Its empty spaces echoed with silence, as though waiting to be filled by something—purpose, people, or perhaps just the passing of time.

I took a few slow steps, the sound of my boots muffled by the fabric floor beneath. My hand reached absently for the collar of my shirt, beginning to unfasten the buttons, the motion driven more by fatigue than thought. But halfway down, I stopped. A cold realisation swept over me: I had no bedclothes. Not even a change of clothes. I stood there for a beat, the ridiculousness of the situation sinking in. The world had shifted so completely, so suddenly, that I had failed to consider even the most basic of personal needs.

With a resigned sigh, I re-buttoned the shirt. A small, weary chuckle escaped me—what a picture I must have looked, standing in the middle of a ten-person tent, half-undressed and suddenly modest in a world where modesty had become irrelevant.

The air was warmer inside, holding the dust and scent of Clivilius like a cloying perfume. It clung to the skin, settled in the corners of the eyes, and left a faint, metallic taste on the tongue. I moved towards the rear corner of the tent where a folded blanket had been placed, one of the few comforts we’d managed to scrounge together. Kneeling, I unfurled it with deliberate care, its edges catching slightly on the uneven floor beneath.

Smoothing the fabric, I pressed down the lumpy patches where clumps of dust had gathered beneath the tent. The act became strangely ritualistic—pushing out the imperfections, creating a space that was, at the very least, level. Each firm stroke of my palm was like a silent declaration: I am here. I will rest. I will carry on.

Despite everything, it felt grounding. Tactile. Real. The texture of the earth beneath the thin layer of material, the weight of the blanket in my hands, the rise and fall of my own breath—it was all I had. And for now, it would be enough.

Settling into the blanket, I drew my knees up towards my chest, cocooning myself in the thin fabric as best I could. The dust beneath the tent floor was soft but uneven, and the blanket, while warm, did little to shield me from the subtle chill of the Clivilius night. But it wasn’t the cold that made me shiver. It was the sudden surge of emotion, raw and unchecked, rising like a wave I couldn’t hold back.

The longing for home struck me with violent clarity. Not just the place, but the people. Pierre’s quiet strength, the way he made tea when I was too tired to lift a kettle. His terrible jokes, his steady hand on my back when I’d had a rough day. The way he said my name like it was something precious.

And Lois. Sweet, dependable Lois. Our golden retriever, always underfoot, always watching with those gentle, knowing eyes. She had been the silent witness to our lives—the celebrations, the heartbreaks, the everyday rhythms that had made up the life I’d now left behind.

Their absence hit me like a physical blow. The silence here wasn’t just quiet; it was the absence of them. No soft padding of paws across a wooden floor. No distant hum of Pierre’s voice from another room. Just the low rustle of the tent, the occasional snap of the fire outside, and the hollow space where everything that mattered used to be.

I pressed my face into my knees, holding still, as though any movement might cause the fragile composure I’d built to crack entirely. But it was already cracking.

This vast landscape, this dry, dusty place—it wasn’t just far from home in distance. It was a different universe in every way that mattered. And yet, here I was, expected to function. To lead. To heal. To survive.

Kneeling on the blanket, I forced my breathing to slow. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. I closed my eyes. If I couldn’t be home, if I couldn’t change any of it, then at the very least, I could cling to the rituals that had always steadied me. That was something.

"I'm grateful for my life," I whispered. The words, habitual yet tremulous, floated into the stillness of the tent. It was something I always said, even when life felt too heavy to carry. Gratitude had once been my anchor. Tonight, it felt more like a desperate grasp at stability.

"I'm grateful for the air. I'm grateful for the kindness of Paul." My voice wavered but held. I pictured Paul’s quiet patience, his unspoken support after I’d unravelled earlier. It meant more than I could express—more than he probably knew.

But it was hard. So much harder than usual. The gratitude didn’t come easily tonight. It fought against the sharp edges of grief, the ache of absence, the disorientation of being utterly unmoored from my world.

I remembered the day my mother told me my father had vanished. The disorientation, the hole that had opened in my chest, never quite closing. I hadn’t known then what it truly meant to lose someone to Clivilius. Now, that hollow ache stretched into something vaster, something deeper. My father hadn’t just disappeared—he had crossed into this. And now so had I.

Still, I stayed with the ritual. I swallowed against the lump in my throat and searched for something, anything, to be grateful for in this place of red dust and uncertainty.

"I'm grateful for Clivilius."

The words were foreign on my tongue, strange and unwelcome—but necessary. Not because I believed them, not yet. But because, perhaps, one day, I might.