A pot on the stove—
Simmering, not boiling.
That used to be enough.
The Apartment Two Floors Up From the Corner Store
He sat by the window with a chipped mug of tea, the kind that cooled faster than you could drink it. Outside, the world moved in fast, flickering patterns—headlines flashing across bus stop ads, urgent dings from someone’s phone, the low murmur of an argument happening in the stairwell below.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken to someone about the weather.
Not the global climate.
Not satellite projections or tipping points.
Just the weather.
Whether it would rain. Whether the sky looked like autumn or spring. Whether that smell—earthy, sharp—meant something was finally blooming again.
Now every conversation felt like a debate. Every opinion, a line in the sand. You couldn’t talk about your cat without someone turning it into a metaphor for class warfare. Couldn’t mention eggs without spiraling into a discussion about inflation, supply chains, chicken ethics.
Everything had become signal. Noise. Performance. Battle.
And he was tired.
Not from caring—he still did. He recycled. He voted. He read longform articles instead of just reposting headlines. But lately, he missed something quieter. Something simpler.
He missed talking about how strange it was that people still lined their shelves with DVDs they never watched.
He missed wondering out loud if oat milk was actually good or if they were all just pretending.
He missed the casual poetry of nothing conversations.
The Dream of the Quiet Life
Some nights, he imagined it:
Selling everything.
Buying a little shack on the edge of some not-quite-tourist town.
Running a secondhand bookstore that didn’t even have a name, just a blue door and a squeaky bell.
People would come in, buy dog-eared paperbacks, talk about soup recipes and weekend plans.
No one would ask what side he was on.
He wouldn’t need to have a side.
The tea had gone cold.
He didn’t warm it back up.
He just watched the clouds roll in,
and for once,
said nothing at all.
life 