One Breath - By Carla Fourie

Written By: Carla Fourie

Category: Psychological Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the 2026 Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition, Carla Fourie offers a profound exploration of self-awareness and resilience through her short story, "One Breath." This psychological narrative delves into the experience of seeking solace and strength amidst personal struggles, set against the backdrop of a forest path. Fourie's storytelling presents a compelling journey of introspection and renewal, inviting readers to ponder the complexities of identity and the courage it takes to confront one's inner conflicts.

About the Work

"One Breath" is a captivating short story that intertwines themes of vulnerability, self-discovery, and the struggle for self-acceptance. Through evocative imagery of a forest run, Carla Fourie paints a vivid picture of internal conflict and the desire for invisibility. Her narrative style beautifully captures the nuances of endurance and the quest for personal peace, ultimately conveying a message of hope and the possibility of embracing one's truth.

One Breath.

Original Submission by Carla Fourie

One Breath.

* A short story by Carla Fourie

One breath.

Two breaths.

Three breaths.

The midday sun glistens on the bead of sweat slipping down my forehead. Above me, the urban forest’s branches stretch towards one another, interlocking to form an uneven umbrella against the sky. Only a few gaps allow sunlight to penetrate the canopy, spilling thin streaks of gold across the path. Somewhere above me, a bird calls, its song swallowed almost immediately by rustling leaves.

The forest is dark, but not entirely. There is something comforting about that. Even here, where shadows gather thickly between the trunks, the light finds its way through, touching the earth in fragments before disappearing again.

A small, fleeting feeling of hope.

I grunt and continue running along the cobblestone path, my shoes striking the uneven stones in a rhythm that almost matches my breathing.

Like an eagle. Or at least that’s what I’d like to believe as I move through the lush vegetation, imagining myself soaring above the trees, scanning the earth for little mice or, unfortunately, slow rabbits. Eagles do not seem to question their place in the world. They do not apologise for the space they occupy or mistake their vulnerability for weakness. They spread their wings and rise.

When I run, I am the predator, not the prey. And for a few kilometres, I can almost convince myself that’s true.

My body is desperately trying to cool itself. Sweat gathers at the nape of my neck and spreads across my back, the fabric of my shirt clinging to my skin. A drop slips down my temple, catches at my jaw and falls. Behind me, the gravel darkens where the moisture lands, leaving small temporary marks on the dusty path.

Keep going, I tell myself.

Don’t turn back.

The body sweats to regulate its temperature. When sweat evaporates from the skin, it carries heat away, helping the body maintain a safe internal temperature. The process is called evaporative cooling. It is a quiet, extraordinary act of preservation, so ordinary that we rarely notice it happening.

When the body overheats, it does not set itself on fire. It sweats. It finds a way to release the heat without consuming itself- a way to survive without becoming the source of its own destruction.

I wonder when I forgot how to do that.

The sun feels incinerating against my skin, relentless even beneath the canopy. I chose this forest to escape the heat, to escape the sensation of being exposed beneath an open sky. Yet the warmth follows me between the trees, gathering beneath my clothes. I tug at the sleeves of my spandex top, pulling the material further down my arms.

The fabric is uncomfortable against my damp skin, but I leave it where it is.

The trees around me are covered in lines. Some are fine and shallow; others run deep through the bark, branching and intersecting like paths on an intricate map. I trace them with my eyes as I pass, wondering how something can bear so many marks and still reach towards the light.

I pull my sleeves lower.

I know what it is to carry marks that tell a story you are not ready to share. I know the fear of being seen too clearly, of a passing glance becoming a question I have spent so long learning not to answer.

I imagine my sleeves serving the same purpose as the branches above me. A second canopy. Another layer between myself and the world. The trees shelter me from the sun; my clothes shelter me from the possibility of being seen.

Here, beneath the green and gold, I can almost disappear.

I could wear moss-green sleeves, blending into the great oaks that tower above the path. Or muted blue, like the birches standing quietly beside the trail. Perhaps, if I were feeling daring, I could wear terracotta, the deep rust of an African sunset. A colour that refuses to fade into the background. Bold. Unapologetic. Impossible to mistake for anything else.

I wonder what it would feel like to wear a colour without considering whether it would make me more visible. The thought passes as quickly as it arrives.

Different colours, different trees, different ways of existing in the world. I have made them all to serve the same purpose.

To disappear.

The path begins to widen. The trees grow thinner, their branches no longer reaching far enough to meet above me. Sunlight spills through the widening gaps, no longer arriving in delicate fragments but in great, uninterrupted sheets. The forest seems to loosen its hold on me, one tree at a time. Ahead lies the clearing, and beyond it, the world I have spent so long trying to avoid.

When I leave the forest, I feel exposed.

The heat has become unbearable, so I roll my sleeves up. The movement is instinctive, practical, necessary. For one brief moment, I forget what I have spent so long trying to hide.

Then I notice the people.

Friends, family, perhaps even a teacher. People who might recognise that something is wrong before I am ready to explain it. Some might ask questions; others might look away, offer reassurance, or remind me that I do not have to face everything alone. Being noticed is not the same feeling as being understood.

There is a particular kind of silence that follows a question you are not ready to answer. I have practised it in front of mirrors, in changing rooms, in the moments before someone reaches for my hand. I have learnt to redirect conversations, to offer a smile, to make an ordinary afternoon out of something that has never felt ordinary to me.

I have also learnt that hiding the evidence does not make the hurt disappear.

The woollen sweaters on summer days. The long, loose clothes at the beach. The robe that stays on long after I have gone to bed. There is always another layer, another explanation, another reason to keep the world at a comfortable distance. I have learnt to dress for the possibility of being seen rather than for the weather.

My body will never stop sweating.

It will continue its quiet work beneath my clothes, beneath my skin, beneath every layer I place between myself and the world. It will regulate, repair, protect. It will do what it can, even when I resent it for doing so.

For a long time, I confused the pain I carried with the body that carried it. I treated them as inseparable, as though the body itself were to blame for the hurt I did not know how to hold. I am beginning to understand that my body is not the story of my worst moments. It is also the body that brings me through the forest, that fills my lungs, that sweats beneath the afternoon sun and keeps me moving even when I beg it to stop.

My body does not know that I have spent so long treating it as an enemy.

It only knows how to keep me alive.

I look back at the forest. From here, the trees appear almost indistinguishable from one another, a dark mass against the brightness of the afternoon. Their roots remain hidden beneath the soil, their branches reaching towards a sky they cannot control. Their bark bears its lines without apology. They do not have to be unmarked to keep growing.

For so long I believed that the shadows were the only place I could be safe. I mistook being unseen for being untouched, and concealment for control. Perhaps, somewhere along the way, I began to confuse hiding with healing.

Even the tallest trees need sunlight.

For a moment, I am less afraid of being seen. The heat has not disappeared, and neither have the thoughts I carry with me. My sleeves still feel too short. The world still feels too bright. I do not know what tomorrow will ask of me, or whether I will find the courage to answer differently.

But the path stretches ahead.

I take a breath.

Then another.

For once, I do not turn back.

One breath.

Two breaths.

Three breaths.

Sweat gathers at my forehead, catches the afternoon light and slips down my cheek. I resist the familiar urge to wipe it away.

For once, I let my body do what it was made to do.

I let it release the heat.

I let it carry me forward.

I let it live.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious platform celebrating diverse voices in the arts. It showcases exceptional works from around the world, inviting participants to share their unique stories and creative expressions. This competition stands as a testament to the power of words and the importance of artistic exploration in capturing the human experience.

Thank you, Carla Fourie, for sharing your insightful short story, "One Breath," with us in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Your narrative resonates deeply, offering a poignant reflection on the journey towards self-acceptance. We appreciate your contribution and look forward to seeing more of your thought-provoking work in the future.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.