Step outside

Chapter 5: The noise

No one warns you about the noise. Not the city noise — that one I know well. Taxis hooting like they’re personally offended by traffic. People shouting directions that make no sense. Someone always selling something I didn’t know I needed. I mean the noise inside your head. The kind that starts the moment you sit down after a long day and think, Okay, now I can rest. And your brain says, Absolutely not. It starts gently. A small thought. Then another. Then suddenly it’s a full meeting in my head, and I didn’t even send out invites. Why am I tired when I did nothing exciting today? Why do I feel busy but also empty? Why does everyone else seem to have a storyline while I feel like background music? I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling like it owes me answers. The fan spins above me, dramatic for no reason, making noises like it’s struggling just as much as I am. I scroll on my phone even though I promised myself I wouldn’t. Bad idea. Someone is engaged. Someone is in Paris. Someone just started a business. Someone is “soft launching” a relationship I didn’t know existed. I close the app. Open it again. Because self-control is a myth. I sit up suddenly, overwhelmed by a very serious realization: I am young, but I feel like I’m forty-three with back pain and no pension. I laugh. Then immediately feel offended by my own laugh. How is it possible to be this tired when all I do is go to work and come home? I don’t even have children. I don’t have a side hustle. I don’t have a tragic backstory that explains this level of exhaustion. All I have is vibes. And stress. For free. My mom calls from the kitchen. Loud, as always. “Ruiwaida! Did you eat?” I shout back, “Yes!” This is a lie. But it feels unnecessary to explain myself. My dad says nothing. He never does unless it matters. He just walks past my door, pauses, and asks quietly, “You okay?” I say yes again. Another lie, but softer. When the house finally settles into silence, the noise in my head gets braver. You can’t keep living like this, it says. Like what? I ask back. Like you’re waiting for permission. That thought sits with me. Uncomfortable. Heavy. Annoying. Permission from who? My parents? The economy? The universe? I don’t have answers, just irritation. I grab my notebook — the one I pretend not to care about — and write nothing useful. Just sentences that don’t lead anywhere. “I’m not unhappy.” “I’m not happy either.” “I don’t want a big life. I just want one that feels mine.” I stare at the page and feel ridiculous for acting like this is a breakthrough. But something about it feels louder than usual. Like the noise is turning into a voice. Not a plan. Not a dream. Just a suggestion. What if you tried something small? I laugh again. Out loud this time. Small? Please. My whole life is small. But the idea doesn’t leave. It sits there, annoying and persistent, like someone knocking lightly on a door I’ve kept closed for years. I don’t answer it yet. But I don’t tell it to go away either.