A shadow on the wall—
Not cast by candlelight,
But by a screen too bright, too close.
The Café Without Screens
It was the kind of café that shouldn’t exist anymore. No Wi-Fi. No charging ports. No gentle hum of notifications slicing through conversation. The only glow came from the old Edison bulbs hanging overhead, their light flickering in uneven waves against the brick walls. The smell of espresso lingered in the air, rich and unapologetic.
The sign on the door was simple: No Screens, Just Here.
I hesitated before stepping inside. Outside, the world buzzed—people hunched over their phones, faces slack with attention fixed elsewhere. Even as I reached for the handle, I caught myself glancing at my screen, as if some urgent message might arrive in the three seconds it took to enter.
It hadn’t.
The door swung shut behind me, and for the first time in a long while, I felt something unfamiliar. Stillness.
The Man Who Was Watching
The café wasn’t empty, but it was quiet in a way I hadn’t experienced in years. No music. No calls. Just the low murmur of voices, the clinking of cups against saucers. People sat in pairs, in groups, some alone—reading, writing, staring out the window as if the world outside was worth watching.
I ordered a coffee and found a seat near the corner, my hands twitching with the phantom impulse to reach for my phone. I fought it, pressing my fingers against the worn wood of the table instead. It was scratched, etched with initials and forgotten thoughts, a history of strangers passing through.
Across the room, an old man sat alone, a leather notebook open in front of him. He wasn’t writing. Just watching. Studying the way a young couple leaned into each other’s laughter. The way a barista moved effortlessly behind the counter. The way the steam from his cup curled upward before vanishing.
I wondered what it was like—to observe the world without the need to document it. To see something beautiful and not feel the compulsion to capture, post, share. Just to see. Just to be.
The Glow That Swallowed Everything
I thought about all the places I had been in the last year—airports, train stations, waiting rooms. Places filled with people staring at screens, lost in digital landscapes while the real world passed by unnoticed. I thought about how silence had become uncomfortable, how moments without distraction felt wasted, how my own mind had become restless in stillness.
When had I stopped looking up?
I thought of the last time I had sat in a café without reaching for my phone. The last time I had let my thoughts wander, unfiltered, unedited. The last time I had let a moment simply exist without trying to frame it for later.
The world used to feel more tangible. The weight of a book in my hands. The way rain smelled on pavement. The pause between words in a real conversation. Had I forgotten how to live outside of a screen?
The Choice to Stay
I sipped my coffee. The bitterness grounded me. The warmth spread through my hands, through my chest, through something deeper I had almost forgotten was there.
I glanced at the old man. He met my gaze, and for a second, I expected him to look away, to return to his notebook, to let the moment pass like people so often do. But he didn’t. He nodded. Just slightly. Just enough.
I nodded back.
Outside, the world was still glowing. Still buzzing, still pulling people in. But for now—for this moment—I stayed.
And I looked up.
life 
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