"I smell lavender," I stated to no one in particular as I slid the customer's credit card through the register.  The smell was so overpowering that it blocked out the familiar scent of espresso beans that lingered in the coffee shop.
"It's me," the customer replied.
Images of horrible, sleepless nights rushed through my mind.
The waterfalls of tears.
The heartache.
The letters I never sent.
The hours I spent pouring over my notes and books hoping I could save what was left of my GPA.
The fights with my family.
And I felt a strange comfort.
Comfort in that scent—for each horrible memory was accompanied by the soft scent of lavender.
It went with me everywhere.
It reminded me that I could fix whatever was broken.
If I was hurt, I would heal—eventually.
Anytime I felt stressed I doused myself in lavender.
It was my nicotine.
I was addicted to the smell of comfort.
"Oh," I smiled as I handed him his coffee, "I'll have to go pick some up soon."
It was time to remind myself that all things heal with time.