clearly see the tiny
690 Words
The timing was perfect.
There was no alarm clock, but his body knew. A familiar sensation, like the air in the room had subtly shifted. This was always the moment he stood up, put on his coat, checked his pockets, and opened the door. No thought. This sequence of actions had been repeated long enough to become pure reflex.
He stood up.
The movement was smooth. No hesitation. No doubt. His body was ready to leave before he could even ask where he was going.
He walked toward the door.
The first two steps were firm. The third slowed. Not out of fear. Just because there was a tiny gap between the action and its meaning. Before, this gap had always been filled instantly. Not now.
He stood before the door.
The door hadn't changed. The doorknob was in place. The light from the hallway shone through the thin c***k. Everything was right. Only one thing was missing: the reason to open it.
He placed his hand on the doorknob.
The familiar coldness. The metal offered no further response. Previously, this moment had always been accompanied by a subtle confirmation—that he was doing what needed to be done, that leaving home was the right thing to do, the right time. Now, his hand was merely touching metal.
He didn't open the door.
Not because he had decided to stay.
Simply because nothing compelled the next step.
A fleeting thought: If I don't leave, there will be no consequences.
This thought wasn't rebellious. It was neutral. Almost physical.
He released his grip.
His body leaned slightly forward, as if still pulled by inertia. Then it straightened itself, standing upright. No one noticed the moment. No one marked the fact that he had slowed down more than usual.
He returned to the room.
Each step was lighter than before. Not because he was relaxing, but because the pull forward had been withdrawn. Previously, his entire morning revolved around leaving this apartment. When that point disappeared, the space within suddenly felt superfluous.
He stood in the middle of the living room.
A distinct void appeared—not in the room, but in the sequence of days. Every morning before had a shape. Now that shape was erased, leaving a block of time without a function assigned.
He looked around, as if the apartment could suggest something. But the furniture had no memory of purpose. They simply existed.
He sat down in a chair.
This wasn't where he used to sit at this time. This chair was for the evening, for those hours when he didn't need to go anywhere. Sitting here in the morning felt slightly out of place, but there was nothing wrong with it.
He tried to wait.
Nothing happened.
No message.
No late reminders.
No excuse for being late to fix the situation.
He realized something very strange:
Before, he didn't leave home because he wanted to.
He left home because staying wasn't a valid option.
Now both were valid.
And that's what made him stand still.
His body began to disorient itself very slowly. Not panic. Not obvious confusion. Just small reflexes beginning to clash. He raised his hand and then lowered it. Changed his sitting position. Looked toward the door again, then turned away.
Time passed, but went nowhere.
He felt a very slight weariness come on earlier than usual. Not physical weariness. But weariness from having to keep the day going. Before, this burden had never belonged to him.
He stood up again, walked toward the door a second time.
This time, he didn't touch the doorknob. He stood close enough to clearly see the tiny scratches on the metal surface. These scratches he had never noticed before. Previously, he had always passed by them too quickly.
He stepped back.
There was no decisive moment.
No choice was made.
Only a very quiet truth formed:
When there was no reason to leave,
staying also lost its clear meaning.
The morning lasted longer than it should have.
The door remained there.
And for the first time, leaving home became
an act requiring faith,
not a reflex.
- Writer
