back against the chair
670 Words
He came home earlier than usual.
Not because he had finished work.
Nor because there was anything to avoid.
It was simply that after leaving the café, no other logical destination came to mind. Returning home, for a very long time, had always been a safe backup plan—a place where every rhythm could be temporarily paused.
He opened the door.
The apartment greeted him with its familiar silence. No new smells. No obvious changes. His shoes were back in their place, his coat hanging on the hook. This sequence of actions was still smooth, as if his body believed that simply completing them would automatically activate the "coming home" state.
But it didn't come.
He stood still for a few seconds in the small hallway. Before, this moment was usually very brief—a transition from outside to inside, from social to personal. Now, that transition had no support. He was just inside the house, not home.
He walked into the living room.
The light remained unchanged. The furniture was still in place. But the room no longer felt closed off. Before, home was a place that allowed him to stop reacting, stop optimizing, stop being present for others. Now, with no place demanding his "activity," the concept of retreat became meaningless.
He sat down in his chair.
This posture once carried a very clear permission: now, rest. Now, no one grants permission to rest anymore. He sat, but his body didn't relax. His shoulders didn't loosen. His breathing didn't deepen. The state of waiting remained, as if something was unfinished—though he didn't know what it was.
He looked around.
Everything belonged to him. But nothing needed him. The apartment didn't respond. It didn't ask, didn't confirm, didn't refuse. It simply existed as a neutral shell.
He got up and went into the kitchen.
He opened the cupboard. Closed it. Opened the refrigerator. Looked inside. Not hungry. Not full either. These actions used to be part of his inner rhythm. Now they've become gestures unconnected to any apparent need.
He poured himself some water, took a few sips, then set the glass down.
No shift in state occurred afterward.
He realized something that made his stomach ache slightly:
before, home wasn't just a place he returned to—
it was a place where he was allowed not to move forward.
Now, not moving forward is no longer defined.
He returned to the living room, standing in the middle of the room.
This space used to help him make a clear distinction: outside was participation, inside was withdrawal. When that boundary disappeared, the apartment became too large for its function. It no longer held him, but neither did it push him away.
He tried lying down on the couch.
This posture usually came late in the day. Lying down at this hour created a slight imbalance, but no warning appeared to correct it. His body lay still, but his mind didn't lag behind.
The ceiling appeared—exactly the same as this morning.
A cold, closed loop formed:
waking up → going out → returning → remaining in the same state.
No c****x.
No ending.
He sat up.
A very simple, emotionless thought arose:
If home is no longer a place of retreat, then there is nowhere.
This thought didn't alarm him. But it made his subsequent movements unnatural. He took a few steps, then stopped. Standing near the window. Looking out. The city was still there, distant and uniform.
He was inside the house, but not contained.
He was outside in society, but not needed.
Between these two states, he couldn't find a place to settle.
He sat down again, his back against the chair, his eyes open.
No intention of sleeping.
I had no intention of doing anything further.
There was only a very quiet feeling, very difficult to name:
When everything is open,
nowhere is there a place to return to.
The morning had passed long ago.
But the day had never truly begun.
- Writer
