The Breath Between Us

A letter from Air to humanity against it's pollution.

Dear Humanity,

I am Air, your constant companion, the quiet force that has filled every breath since your first cry. I am the breeze that cools your brow on a scorching day, the rustle in the leaves that tells stories older than your cities. I am the oxygen that dances in your blood, the invisible thread connecting you to every living thing. Today, I write not in anger, but in hope; Remember me.

Once, you knew my value. Your ancestors thanked me for carrying the scent of rain to their crops, lifting the wings of eagles they admired, and breathing life into their fires. Children chased my whispers through the savanna; elders closed their eyes and let me soothe them. But now, you hurry past, forgetting I am here. You trap me in rooms thick with fumes, bury me under clouds of exhaust, and pretend I will always endure. Let me share how this feels.

Each day; your cars, factories, and power plants fill my currents with smoke and dust. I try to cleanse myself; raindrops scrub your streets, and trees stretch their leaves to help, but the burden grows heavier. In crowded cities, I see children squint through haze, their laughter interrupted by coughs. I carry pollen mixed with tire dust in spring, confusing bees who once trusted me. Even the mountains, where I used to drape myself in crisp, blue silence, now wear cloaks of gray.
L to balance what you’ve added. Farmers watch their fields drown in rains I can’t contain; wildfires I once helped calm now rage beyond my control. I want to nurture, but I am tired.
Yet, I still believe in us. Every sunrise, I offer you a fresh start.


I know change is hard. Habits cling like static. But small choices ripple: A single bus ride clears a path for tomorrow’s children. A community garden becomes a sanctuary for beetles, butterflies, and the quiet joy of growth. When you look up, know that I am still here, fighting to hold the stars visible, to keep mornings crisp, to turn your sighs into strength. My promise remains: I will always fill your lungs, for as long as I can. But I need you to see me not as empty space but as a living bond between us all.

One day, may your grandchildren run through fields without masks, their cheeks flushed with clean, wild air. May they know the taste of snowflakes untouched by soot. This future is still written in the wind. Let’s rewrite the ending, together.

With unwavering hope,
The Air You Breathe