my last lip balm
i ran out yesterday. it just happened, like all the worst endings do. i reached into my pocket the way i always do — without thinking. my fingers were already curled, already bracing for the familiar feel of that smooth, plastic tube. but there was nothing. just lint, an old receipt, and that sudden, strange absence. i paused, blinked, tried the other pocket. nothing.
maybe i left it in my bag, i thought. or on my desk. or in the side pocket of my jacket. i tried to be rational. calm. i wasn’t about to lose my mind over something so small.
but i checked my bag. dug through every zipper, every crumpled tissue and forgotten pen. no balm.
i checked my room. the little basket i keep by the bed — the one that catches all the things i’m too tired to put away properly. i found a hair tie, a cracked ring, a pin from some campaign i never followed through with. no balm.
i checked the bathroom. behind bottles and razors and dried up mascara. then the kitchen, for some godforsaken reason. the living room. even the pockets of the laundry basket, as if i might’ve slipped it in there on instinct.
still nothing.
at first, i told myself it wasn’t a big deal. i could go a day. i could power through the slight sting on my bottom lip, that rough patch near the corner of my mouth. i drank water. bit the inside of my cheek to distract myself. told myself i was being silly.
but the pain started creeping in by the afternoon. it’s strange, how something so small can demand so much attention once it’s gone. the wind hit harder than usual. every time i moved my mouth, the skin pulled — tight, raw, like it was trying to hold together what didn’t want to stay. i rubbed at it without thinking. then winced. then stopped trying.
by the time i got home, i was searching again. this time more frantically. i went through drawers i haven’t opened in months, through bags i haven’t carried for a while. i emptied everything onto the floor — books, scarves, receipts from random coffee shops — and i don’t even know what i was hoping for. a miracle, maybe. a sign. a balm that had rolled beneath the bed and waited for me like some loyal little dog.
i didn’t find anything. just dust. crumbs. a lot of nothing.
so i left. put on sandals and went to the store in town. they always have everything. but i guess not today. the shelf where the balms usually sit was nearly bare. the few left were the wrong kind. sticky. artificial. the kind that makes your lips feel worse after. i knew better than to settle. i stood there for too long, staring at a rack of flavors that felt like strangers. coconut, vanilla, something called “fresh burst.” they didn’t look like the one i lost.
i walked out with nothing.
that’s the thing no one tells you about grief. it doesn’t always come dressed in black. sometimes it shows up in a plastic tube that you can’t find anymore. sometimes it shows up in the way your lips split when you smile, or how stop talking as much because it hurts to open your mouth.
Get louisse’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
i went home. tried to sleep. couldn’t. my mouth throbbed. i kept licking my lips without meaning to — each time making it worse. each time making myself more desperate. it’s embarrassing, really. to be reduced to this. to feel like crying over something you can’t even explain to other people without sounding unwell.
“it’s just a lip balm,” they’d say.
but it’s not.
it was always there. quietly. consistently. in every bag, in every pocket. i ritual. a kindness i gave to myself without asking for permission. something i didn’t have to earn. i could be crying, or angry, or so tired i didn’t know what day it was — but i could still reach into my bedside table, twist the cap, and apply that thin layer of care. no questions. no shame. no effort. just softness.
and now i don’t have that.
now i carry a sharp awareness of absence. of friction. of skin unraveling. there’s no dramatic climax here. no big disaster. just the dull, familiar ached of missing something no one else noticed was gone.
and the longer it goes on, the more it hurts. not just physically. there’s something else. something i don’t know how to name. something like helplessness. like being too tired to do anything but still expected to function. like standing in front of a shelf full of things you don’t want and thinking, why can’t anything just stay the same for once?
you want to scream. but your mouth is too dry.
so you drink water again. apply nothing. hope for the best.
and then you check the same bag again, just in case, even though you now better.
you think about going to a different store. about ordering something online. about choosing a different brand, a different flavor, a different life.
but you don’t.
you just sit there, pressing your lips together like it might help hold everything else in.
and that’s when it hits you.
this isn’t just about the lip balm.
