I smoked my first cigarette to fill the tiniest gap; a fragile moment where I couldn’t find a witty thing to say, where eye contact had been accidental and uncomfortable, where there was no distraction from the empty space between me and this strange man. My first cigarette was a cover story for my time away, but he didn’t even notice I was gone. And so I groped for a cigarette and he for a match, and we burned a bridge across our empty hearts.

It’s been a year since I quit smoking, 4 months since I gave up cake, 3 months since I was forced to break it off with Jon Stewart. And still sometimes my own breath feels too insubstantial; I inhale an emptiness, I grope for what used to be, I channel surf my way through time. I yearn for something solid to fasten myself to. And it’s not a goddamned carrot.

I don’t think it’s always the monumental losses that lead to addiction. One giant broken moment you can point to and say “ah HA! That’s why he’s a heroin addict, a smoker, an alcoholic. That’s why she sleeps with Little Debbie.” I think sometimes addiction sneaks into the second between things; between Jon and Trevor, you and a stranger, you and your own sadness.

Love is created in relationship. And so is grief. And in the heartbeat between the two, treacherous and glorious things can happen. Like bridges that last. Or bridges that burn.