RETENTION

involved

He went outside not because he had decided to.

It was simply that after standing still long enough, his body chose to move as a way to avoid prolonged immobility. There was no moment of preparation. No thought guiding him. He put on his coat, slipped on his shoes, opened the door—a familiar sequence of actions activated automatically, like a backup system still powered on.

The door closed behind him.

That sound used to be the signal to start the day. Now it was just a sound.

The hallway was long, the lighting even, the space kept at a pleasantly neutral level. He walked at a very precise pace. Too precise. His feet landed in perfect rhythm, his back just straight enough, his gaze directed forward but not fixed on anything specific. His body was reenacting a morning without a script.

The elevator arrived quickly. No waiting. No restlessness. He stood in the narrow metal compartment, looking at the control panel which no longer displayed priority or flow. The numbers still change. But they no longer carry the meaning of optimal time or efficiency.

The elevator doors open.

He steps out onto the street.

The city is there—full, functioning smoothly, without any sign of disruption. Others are walking too. Some walk fast, some slow. Some talk, some are silent. No one looks out of place. No one looks forced to be there.

And that's what makes him feel like he doesn't know where he belongs.

He blends into the crowd precisely. The distance between him and the person in front is just right. The pace doesn't hinder. All his social reflexes are still working. He avoids collisions. He gives way. He stands in the right place while waiting to cross the street.

But in all those actions, there is no sense of "participation."

Before, going out always meant entering a network: work, goals, contributions, measurements. Even though he didn't think about it, his body always knew it was in a process. Now that process had dissolved, leaving behind disjointed behaviors still running on their own.

He stood waiting for the red light.

This moment used to be very short. A junction between two movements. Now it stretched on, not because the light lasted longer, but because he no longer knew what he was waiting to do next.

The light turned green.

He crossed the street with everyone else. No one else stopped. No one seemed unusual. Only he felt he was performing an action without consequences.

He continued on. Past a coffee shop. Past a convenience store. Past spaces once associated with very specific things. Now they were just spaces.

There was a very small moment when he wondered: Where am I going?

This question arose later than it should have. And when it did, it brought no anxiety. Just a very concise emptiness.

He stopped at the side of the road.

There was no apparent reason. His body simply needed a temporary point to reassess its place in the day. He stood there for a few seconds, then a few more. No one noticed. No norms were violated.

He realized something that weighed heavily on his chest:

before, even without being forced, he always knew he was in the right place.

Now, “the right place” no longer existed.

He could go on.

He could turn back.

He could turn anywhere.

But none of those choices created a sense of participation in something larger than the act itself.

He continued walking.

Not to reach a destination. Just to avoid standing still. Each step was a small, unacknowledged decision, not added up, not leading to any better or worse state.

The city still accepted him like everyone else.

But he no longer felt like a part of it.

A cold, undramatic thought formed in his mind:

Before, I didn't need to understand what I was involved in.

The system understood it for me.

Now, no one understands.

And because of that, every movement became fragile.

He walked through the crowd, completely free.

And for the first time, freedom didn't tell him

what it was using him for.