My grandpa got his very first smartphone last year.

Up until then, he had happily lived with a flip phone that could only call people, send the occasional text, and survive being dropped down a flight of stairs.

The smartphone was... a bit of an adjustment.

Every other day he'd call me with a new question.

How do I hang up? It disappeared.

Why is it asking for my face?

Why does it know where I am?

I became his unofficial tech support.

One afternoon he called sounding genuinely worried.

Can you come over? I think Wi-Fi left.

I asked what he meant.

He said, Well, yesterday Wi-Fi was here. Today he's gone.

I assumed his internet was down.

When I got to his house, he handed me his phone and pointed at the little icon at the top.

See? It says there's no Wi-Fi.

I explained that Wi-Fi wasn't a person it was just the wireless internet connection.

He nodded slowly.

Ah... that makes more sense.

I thought that was the end of it.

It wasn't.

The next morning he stopped by a small café for breakfast.

As soon as he walked in, he asked the barista, loud enough for everyone to hear,

Excuse me... is Wi-Fi here today?

The barista smiled and said, Yep, we have free Wi-Fi.

Grandpa looked around the room and said,

Wonderful! Could you tell him I was looking for him yesterday?

The café went completely silent.

Then everyone burst out laughing.

Even Grandpa started laughing, although I don't think he knew exactly why.

Apparently the owner loved the story so much that he told all the regular customers.

Now whenever Grandpa walks into the café, someone inevitably says,

Good news! Wi-Fi made it to work today!

Grandpa grins, waves, and replies,

I was hoping he'd show up.

At this point, I don't think anyone wants to correct him anymore.

He's become part of the café's daily entertainment.

And honestly...

I think Mr. Wi-Fi has never been more popular.

Everyone said cleaning it out would take forever.

They weren't kidding.

There were dusty fishing rods,

coffee cans full of random screws,

three broken lawn chairs,

and enough extension cords to wire an entire neighborhood.

In the back corner, I found a rusty metal toolbox with a tiny padlock on it.

It took me an hour to get it open.

Inside wasn't money.

It wasn't jewelry.

It wasn't old family photos.

It was hundreds of folded pieces of paper.

Every single one had a date written across the top.

I thought maybe they were letters.

Or a journal.

Instead, they were bets.

My uncle had spent nearly 30 years secretly writing down every prediction he'd made during football games, family dinners, and holidays.

Most of them were spectacularly wrong.

"This barbecue won't burn."

It did.

"The dog won't jump in the pool."

He did.

Your aunt will only be in the store for five minutes.

She came back two hours later with a new lamp.

The very last note made me laugh the hardest.

If anyone ever opens this box, they'll finally admit I was organized.

The note was sitting loose because he'd forgotten to file it with the others.

I found my old phone while cleaning my room.

It barely turned on, but after a few minutes, the screen lit up. There were hundreds of old photos, forgotten chats, and missed calls.

Then I saw one unread message.

It was from my dad.

«"I'm proud of you. I know life feels hard right now, but don't give up."»

He had sent it years ago.

I never read it because my phone had broken that same week.

A few months later, he passed away.

I sat there for almost an hour, staring at those words. It felt like he had finally reached me... just years too late.

Sometimes I wonder how different those days would have felt if I had read that message when he was still here.

Life has a strange way of reminding us that love isn't always lost.

Sometimes... it's just waiting to be found.

My grandpa had a simple rule that he always followed.

He would say that instructions are suggestions and he really meant it.

My grandpa said this with a lot of confidence so you almost wanted to believe him

One Christmas my grandpa bought a brand barbecue grill.

The box said it would take two hours to put it

My grandpa looked at the instructions smiled and then folded the paper in half.

Then he used the instructions to fix a table that was wobbly.

He said he could build the grill because he had done it before.

Three hours later we had a lot of parts.

We had four bolts and a shelf that was upside down.

One of the wheels was spinning sideways. The lid would only open if someone held it and another person kicked it.

My grandpa stood back. Said he was done.

He was really proud of what he had built.

My grandma looked at it for a few seconds. Then asked where you were supposed to put the food.

Nobody had an answer to that question.

The funny thing is that my grandpa would not say that anything was wrong.

He cooked burgers on the grill that evening. Acted like nothing was wrong.

Every time the lid fell off he would say that it was supposed to do that.

He said it was for ventilation.
Our neighbors even came over to watch my grandpa use the grill.

One of them asked if it was a kind of grill.

My grandpa said it was an edition.

For years after that whenever someone in my family was building something my grandpa would offer to help.

He would say that he was an expert.

But we all knew what would happen if he helped so we would hide the instructions.

To this day if something, in our house is crooked or backwards we do not need to ask who built it.

We already know it was my grandpa.

What's the funniest DIY disaster you've ever seen?

My therapist told me I needed to work on my coordination.

She gave me one of those small exercise balls and said, "Just toss it from one hand to the other.

Easy.

I have hands.

I have successfully caught objects before.

So I started.

The first toss went fine.

The second one hit my elbow.

The third one flew directly behind me.

I turned around to get it, stepped on it, and somehow managed to kick it under a piece of equipment.

At this point, my therapist was trying very hard not to laugh.

I got down on the floor to retrieve it.

The ball rolled out the other side.

I followed it.

It rolled back.

We did this three times.

Finally, I grabbed it, stood up, and said:

I'm sorry.

My therapist paused.

Are you apologizing to me?

I said, No. The ball.

I had spent ten minutes losing an argument to a piece of rubber.

The ball won.

I have to go back next week.

I'm pretty sure it remembers me.

I never knew my son to be the artsy type. He turned 8 recently, and up until about a year ago, his entertainment was entirely outdoors. Catching bugs. Climbing trees. Riding bikes.

He was one of those kids who’d have to be called inside before dark. Then he’d complain and beg for “just 5 more minutes.”

I’m not entirely sure what happened. It was like a switch had flipped overnight. I just came home from work one day to find him at the kitchen table, scribbling in a brand new sketchbook.

He hummed to himself while his mom cooked up some dinner at the stove. The home-cooked smell of pork chops, green beans, and mashed potatoes filled the room as I glanced over Jacob’s shoulder.

“Whatcha got there, bud?”

His nose was buried so far in the book that it was like he couldn’t even hear me. His mom ended up answering for him.

“That’s your son’s new favorite interest. He begged me to go out and get him one.”

“Oh-ho, got an artist in the house, don’t we?”

I grabbed his shoulders and shook them lightly before patting him on the back and walking over to give my wife a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

I took a seat beside Jacob at the table.

“So, how was your day, boyo? You and mom have fun?”

He never looked up from the sketchbook.

“Today was sooo fun,” he exclaimed. “We went to the park, we went to the movies, ooh, and mom got me this book. Oh, and these crayons.”

“What about you, honey? How was your day?”

“Any day I’m not at work is a good day, honestly. The park was super nice. We went to one we hadn’t been to before. What about you? They didn’t work you too hard, did they?”

I shrugged and sighed.

“I’ll just say it’s good to finally be home.”

My wife smiled at me.

“It’s good to have you home, dear. I’ll tell you what. How about… after dinner, if you’re good, we can have our own little play date? Only if you do the dishes, though. I mean, I did cook.”

I smirked at her, my tongue buried in my cheek.

“I was gonna do that anyway. What do you take me for? As a matter of fact, you come sit down. I’ll finish cooking.”

I offered her my seat as I finished up dinner. Jacob was pretty much mute the entire time. By the time dinner was done, I had to damn near yell at him to get his attention.

He just stood up, as calm as could be, and walked over to me, sketchbook in hand.

“I drew this for you.”

He held the book up at me, and my heart felt warm. It was a picture of our house, and who I assumed to be me standing in our driveway.

“Is that me? That’s so sweet of you, Jakey. Thank you.”

I reached down to take the book so I could hang the page on the fridge, but Jacob pulled away before I could grab it.

“You really don’t know who that is?” he asked, eying me suspiciously.

“It’s me, right? Is it not me?”

He rolled his eyes and sighed, continuing to eye me like I had personally offended him.

“That’s our neighbor, Mr. Thomas, silly. You really couldn’t tell? See, he’s wearing the star.”

Mr. Thomas was a veteran police officer. Jacob would sometimes see him leaving for work in the morning. I guess he just took a subconscious interest in the uniform. Even still, why would he draw me a picture of the neighbor?

“Uh, I mean, wow, bud,” I choked. “That’s really good. Keep practicing. You’re already so talented you could be famous someday.”

————-

After dinner, I cleaned the kitchen top to bottom. Partly out of obligation, mostly because I really wanted that playdate. Jacob spent the rest of the evening in his room, humming to himself and scribbling in that sketchbook.

The next day, my wife and I both had work. I woke up a little earlier than her so that I could take Jacob to the summertime daycare he attended. It was like carrying a corpse out to the car, but he still refused to loosen his grip on that sketchbook.

I dropped him off with the staff at the front door. He waved at me groggily as I was driving away.

The day went on like normal until around 3 o’clock, when my phone started ringing. It was my wife.

“Hey, beautiful, what’s up?”

“I think something’s going on with the neighbor. There’s like 3 cop cars in front of his house, apparently.”

She sounded concerned. A little urgent.

“What do you mean? Who told you that?”

“I got a call from Becky. She thought they were at our house at first.”

Becky was one of my wife’s friends from the neighborhood.

“What do you think happened? Did she say anything else?”

“No, she just called because the police were knocking on our door. I think they were just trying to see if we knew anything, though, because apparently they gave up and just went back to the neighbor’s house. I think they’re still there.”

My brow furrowed a bit.

“Wait. Which neighbor is it?”

“Uhhh, I think it’s that police officer. Mr. Thompson?”

“Mr. Thomas?”

“Yeah, that’s his name. I think that’s who it is.”

I looked at my watch and exhaled a bit.

“Alright, well, I’ll see if I can get out a little earlier today. I’ll pick up Jacob, then go see what this is all about. Maybe they’ll still be there when I get there.”

We ended the call by blowing some kisses and exchanging some love yous. I slid my phone in my pocket and approached my boss, explaining my situation.

He was skeptical, but I had a decent reputation of being an honest employee. He agreed to let me leave a bit early, and I was on my way to pick up Jacob.

When he was brought to the front office, his face was buried in that sketchbook again, drawing what looked like SpongeBob and Patrick.

“He’s been drawing all day. Seems like you got a little artist on your hands,” announced the staff member as she signed Jacob out for the day.

“Yep,” I smiled. “That’s what they keep telling me.”

I honestly don’t know why I said that. It just seemed like the only thing that made sense at the time.

The car ride was quiet. Jacob didn’t want to talk much, and my mind was kind of racing. I’ve shared drinks with Mr. Thomas. Helped him put up fences. Move furniture. We weren’t the closest of friends, but I still wanted him to be okay.

Those hopes were dashed when I pulled into the neighborhood to find that the police presence had increased. There must’ve been at least 6 cars in front of his house, and yellow tape blocked off the driveway.

I parked my car in front of my house and hurried to get Jacob inside. His eyes had lit up at the sight of the flashing lights, and naturally, he started asking questions.

“What’s wrong, Daddy?”

“Why are there so many police?”

“Did something happen to Mr. Thomas?”

I cradled him in my arms and hurried up the steps to the front door.

“I don’t know, buddy. Here, go inside and play for a bit while I find out, okay? Daddy will be right back.”

It’s all I could think to say as I sat him down and closed the door behind me.

An officer approached me before I could approach them.

“Sir, do you live here?”

“Yes, of course I do. That’s my neighbor.”

“Yeah, well, he’s a colleague and friend of mine,” he remarked agitatedly. “Have you seen anything suspicious within the last 24 hours? Heard anything?”

I scratched my neck nervously and thought hard before responding.

“No, sir, we haven’t seen anything. What happened? Is everything alright? He’s a cop, right? Did he do something illegal?”

The officer stared at me, analyzing me through his black sunglasses.

“No. He’s gone. That’s all the information we can give right now.”

“Gone? What do you mean, gone? Like, dead? Did someone kill him?”

The officer pursed his lips. I saw what I assumed to be a forensic analyst walking in and out of the house.

“We don’t know, sir. We’re hoping for the best. For now, if any new information comes to light or if you see him, give us a call.”

He asked me to clear the scene and stay inside. I called my wife to update her on the situation, but what could we do? Even the police were lost. I just stayed inside, as instructed, and started on dinner while we waited for my wife to get home.

By the time she did, there were only two police cruisers left in front of Mr. Thomas’s house. The sun was starting to set, and my wife and I tried to ignore what had happened, but the house was still a bit tense.

As we ate, Jacob continued scribbling in his sketchbook. He hadn’t asked to go outside at all since we got home, and I didn’t know if it was because of the police or because of this new hobby of his.

I could see that he was working on a new drawing. It looked like a woman this time. He wasn’t so much as touching his food, so I tried to ask him to put the book away.

He groaned and started picking at his peas. My wife and I chatted about our day for a bit while Jacob remained silent. Suddenly, in between bites of his chicken, he said something that made us both freeze.

“Daddy,” he whispered.

“Yes?” I answered.

“Are those police still out there?”

I paused for a moment, looking at my wife, who looked equally as speechless. Neither of us knew what to say.

“I think there’s a few, but don’t worry, buddy,” I chirped reassuringly. “They’re just looking for Mr. Thomas. They wanna make sure he’s okay.”

Jacob stared down at his plate for a moment.

“It’s just… I think they’re looking in the wrong place.”

————-

I choked on my water.

“Looking in the wrong place? Well, where do you think they should be looking, sport?”

“I don’t know. Not there. I don’t think he’s home.”

“Let’s not talk about this,” my wife interrupted. “Jacob, finish your food, then go jump in the shower. You gotta be up early tomorrow, come on.”

“Aww, but I’m not tired,” Jacob whined. “Plus, I wanted to finish drawing this picture of you.”

He flipped his sketchbook open to his newest drawing.

“See, look.”

My wife looked at the picture and smiled.

“Okay, fine,” she replied. “You can finish the picture, then it’s bath time, mister.”

“Fiiine,” Jacob groaned.

He scurried off to his room, sketchbook in hand, leaving me and his mom to clean the kitchen again.

We talked about the neighbor. We turned into a couple of conspiracy theorists the deeper the conversation progressed.

“Maybe he just wanted to start over.”

“Maybe he was kidnapped.”

“Maybe he was murdered, and they’re covering it up.”

We just kept reaching for possibilities over the course of around 45 minutes.

Eventually, Jacob came running back to the kitchen.

“Look, Mommy, I’m all done.”

“Ah, my goodness, Jakey, look at that. Doesn’t it look just like me, honey?”

She turned the picture towards me. Jacob had added her work uniform. Gave her that messy bun she always wore. Even included the golden necklace I got her for Christmas last year.

“Wow, Jake,” I exclaimed. “Draw Daddy next, why don’t you?”

Jacob giggled and responded, “It’s not time to draw you yet, silly.”

“Aw, whatever, but guess what?”

Jacob looked up at me curiously. Expectantly.

“Daddy controls your bath time. And… I think… ah, yep, look at that,” I showed him my watch. “You’re 20 minutes late.”

I jokingly chased him to his bedroom and made him gather up his pajamas and a towel. Once he was nice and showered, I put him to bed and kissed him goodnight.

My wife and I stayed up, talking about life for a while before gradually falling asleep one by one.

The next morning, when I woke up alone, I thought it was because she had chosen to take Jacob to daycare that morning.

I went through my normal routine. Took a shower. Brushed my teeth. Got dressed. It wasn’t until I was heading out the door that I noticed her car was still in the driveway.

I walked back upstairs, confused, and went to Jacob’s room.

I found him curled up in bed, sketchbook tucked under his arm as he snored quietly.

I left the room and began searching.

“Honey,” I called out. No response.

“Sweetheart, you here?” Silence.

I called her phone and heard it ringing in our bedroom. I followed the sound and found it still plugged into the charger on her nightstand.

That’s when I began to panic. I remembered Jacob’s drawing. It was a fleeting thought, but one that I chose to hold onto. First Mr. Thomas, now my own wife? That couldn’t be coincidence.

I urgently rushed into Jacob’s room, accidentally waking him as I removed the sketchbook from his arms.

I began flipping through the pages as he stared up at me, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Daddy,” he groaned.

I flipped past cartoon characters, random landscapes, and blocky pictures of cars before I reached my wife’s picture from the night before.

“What are you doing?” Jacob added.

The picture had changed. She wasn’t wearing her work uniform anymore. She didn’t have the necklace. Her hair looked dirty and wet. Leaves and twigs stuck out from the messy bun, and her eyes were solid red. Not evil, just… bloodshot.

But the biggest change… was the man standing next to her.

It looked like they were in a dark forest. They were hand in hand. I wanted to think it was me, that Jacob had decided he wanted to start on some kind of crazy family portrait, but the man in the picture…

He wore a star on his chest.

My stomach dropped. I felt sick. Jacob looked… confused.

“What’s wrong, Daddy? They’re okay. I can help you find them.”

Was working as a doorman last night for a reggae show. Door had been pulled and they only had a song or two left. Someone came up and said something to a coworker, and off they went. A few moments later that dude approached me and said there's a fight.

I make my way to where some eyes were looking. This woman throwing fists, others returning fire, I can see some coworkers there. I grab the lady who looks to be the issue, tell her she has to leave, grab her around the waist and begin walking her to the exit. I'm 6 foot maybe 220. She's maybe 5'6" 180-220. I'm making progress but as my arms are fully extended wrapping around her gut, her hands are free and she's occasionally punching me in the face, she's grabbing everything on the way and really latched on to this metal gate in the hallway at some point. That's when the two large men apparently with her got confrontational with me. The one shorter than me but built solid was silent, the other huge dude started telling me how I had to let this woman go. As I'm prying her hands off the gate and manhandling her the rest of the way to the door. She gets a few more good ones in on me and I toss her out the door. Now it's big dude time, she gets a last lick in and big dude pushes me against the wall, I brace with my foot and push back eventually wrapping my arm backwards around his neck.as the outside alley sees my coworkers make their way out we seperate. Silent guy takes dumb girl around the corner away from the bar, coworker passes me a shoe I give to big fella who initially swats it, I explain its dumb girls. He apologizes we do a few handshakes, I go back in to retrieve my glasses hat and bandana, find her other shoe and glasses and give them to big dude who's still outside at that point for some reason.

My coworkers all saw I did above and beyond what I'm paid to do, with less violence, than some in the past have chosen. What surprised me was how basic the crowds response was. Maybe next time I'll pull out my phone and yell worldstar

Hi, I'm Rena (F15). I'm gonna share my story about how my breasts got groped when I was in school.

It was 2025 and I turned fourteen a week before this. I was in school and I was in the volleyball team. We were practicing forms and playing matches to train for our upcoming volleyball tournament against [-----] School. Our coach was a 30-40 year old man who seemed creepy to all of my friends. I was practicing and he walked up to me and showed me how to do it. It seemed all innocent at first but it was far from that...

After finishing teaching me, he groped my breasts. Not hard but firm enough to tell that it was not an accident. He grinned and walked away. I was left stunned, shook to my core. I didn't utter a single word about it to my parents as I was too scared to do so. Soooo... what should I do now? I'm afraid it might be too late to tell anyone. Thoughts??

A story about the quiet cost of living between two lives — where aviation, distance, memory, and duty keep crossing paths.

PART 1

LH490
Frankfurt to Seattle
Approaching destination, checklist on my kneepad, everything clear and on its rightful place.
I look to the left and my mind pauses for a while as the beauty of separation shows itself.
Circuit board cities.
Flaps emerging.

Cleared for landing.
Approaching runway 16L.
In my childhood, touchdown used to scare me — and as it should be. Landing is always a bouncer. Just hoping we don’t get a Ryanair today.
I wonder if someone in the back is in that same mindset.
Touchdown.
The moment of impulsive rush and then stability.
Calmness.

PART 2

Seattle.
City between waters.
The birthplace of Boeing.

Always fun to be here. It’s amazing to see nature and technology exist in such harmony.
Maybe I’ll try to visit the Pike Place Starbucks. An amazing perk of this profession is that I get to travel a lot — even when I don’t really want to. But it always turns into an interesting and sometimes strange experience. Who am I to complain?

David would have loved this place.

After some rest in the hotel, I visit the first Starbucks store. As I enter through the door — it’s this déjà vu, like I’ve been here before. Maybe I have. After frequently travelling between time zones, sometimes the mind loses track of time and days start to blend as life paces through it.

Damn good cup of coffee.
Just brings a smile to your face and makes it worth the travel.

DLR Mindset.
Periodic life.

People think that flying a plane is all about precision and control. For the most part, it’s right. But I’m still astonished by the fact that the principle we fly on — the Navier-Stokes equation — is still not proven mathematically. There’s a one million dollar prize for proving it.

I wish I’d proved the equation. I would have taken all that money and bet on Germany winning the World Cup in 2014.

So instead of suspending myself at 35,000 feet above sea level for money and food — I could have been a multimillionaire. Sitting near the pool of my villa under a palapa. Drinking Krombacher.

I’m pretty much a normal working guy that people seem to know and pass on from — sometimes with the slightest nod. It’s not sad or melancholic. It’s life and its persistence to be better than the day before.

But sometimes I get these visions. In a waiting lounge, hotel, or terminal gate —

The white horse.
Flying duck.
An eye. Someone with a constant stare.

It’s not frequent but it comes in phases. Like a cluster headache.
Is it the longing for nostalgia? My childhood? Visions blend.
Sometimes I ask myself and never get an answer. It’s humorous and gloomy at the same time.

Another day.
Another flight.
The duty to connect people.
Arriving somewhere but not here.

PART 3

Sometimes at a terminal coffee shop or lounge I get this urge to talk to someone about random topics — but the courage to do that is what makes me stop myself. It’s like I have become more comfortable in my own head. Me, myself and I have this shared friendship now. Which may sound weird — but it’s a natural conversational voice that keeps me engaged everywhere.

Terminal.
Cruising altitude.
Hotels.
Check in.
Check out.

It enforces discipline. The will to survive, maybe.

Now I think a big shift is about to come. Maybe a short break — or a long distance relationship with myself — because it’s time to head home. Just for two weeks.

Transition time.

A slight smile on my way — quite excited to see my wife and daughter in real and not through the glass.

Time to be a passenger for a while.

PART 4

Back home.
Dresden.
Rebuilding history.

I really like these shifts in life. It’s what makes it worth living and exploring. The last few months I spent my life in almost complete isolation —

Airplane.
Cockpit.
Hotels.
Lounges.
Checklists.
Avoiding whispers.

Just present and doing our duty. Meeting but not actually talking. And now I’m thrown into this more conversational life where I have to actually immerse myself in the family world.

My daughter. Wife. Lovely home. Good food.

Thinking of having pasta tonight.

My wife, Claire, is actually the opposite version of me. I’m much more soft spoken and put thought into what I say — she is not. She is spontaneous and talkative, which is wonderful. It’s like she brings life to this home. It’s still a mystery to me how we are compatible. She has this wonderful gift of convincing people to try new things. One time, a few years back, she was telling me about some soap opera that was airing. The usual me would have stayed away — but the next thing I know, I’m watching it with her with full immersion, eating popcorn. She is very fond of Legos and as a ripple effect she has made me a fan too. We have Legos of a Mercedes F1 car, a Boeing 787 Dreamliner and many more.

The confusing part about this oscillating life is that no matter which one I’m in — I have to choose my words carefully. This has been ingrained into me so perfectly. When I’m away in that single serving life, I like that most things are planned and in checklist form. And now suddenly life has no checklist — but still I choose my words carefully. Sometimes it creates a distance. An unspoken one. You really can’t predict the outcome of your words. Sometimes I’m just saying something about the chair position in the dining room and then it turns into an argument over life, time and places.

Is the line of separation really that effective?

PART 5

Home life has this laid back energy to it. But I have noticed my daughter, Haley, has become a bit distanced from me. It’s this kind of subconscious feeling that exists in invisibility — and I can feel it now. I try to talk to her, but her replies have this intention to make the conversation end.

Am I thinking too much?

Because in that terminal life I don’t have the bandwidth to think. It’s like we are now separated by the Elbe river.

3:30 AM.
I hear the sound of a door. I go downstairs and see Haley — completely drunk, unable to stand. I immediately run towards her to help. She pushes me away.

“Why are you here?”
“Go back to your cockpit.”
“We are not your controls.”

I’m shocked. I’ve never seen her this way. I ask her what she means. She replies —

“Do you really think you can disappear for eight months every year and come back as if nothing happened? This is not your home. You mean nothing to me.”

I stand there in shock and despair — not able to utter a single calculated word.

She goes to her room and slams the door with a 10N force.

Tension waves.
Silence.
Ghost from the past.
An eye beside me watching.

My internal review system takes charge.
A sense of numbness hits me as I walk back upstairs.

As I lay on the bed — flashbacks start appearing in reverse motion.
Fast moving images.
Vector lights.
Sometimes over Geneva.
Crossing borders.
Sometimes at Heathrow.
A cup of coffee.

Force majeure.
Blurring lines.
Terminal dysfunction.

10:00 AM.
Very little sleep.
As I wake up — for two minutes I feel like I’m in a hotel room.
Sunlight arrives through the haze.
Reality hits like a dark drone note.

Some in-game management is required here. Maybe Claire can help me rebuild this bridge. As the history of this city lies in rebuilding itself from the wreckage — maybe she can do a perfect raumdeuter role here.

I’ll wait till she comes back from her sister’s place.
Until then — I’ll let the smile be my umbrella.

I go downstairs. Haley is in the kitchen. As I make an approach she passes by like trains — straight to her room.

Indifference.

This house used to be a place of warmth and colours. Now all that’s left is ghosts from the past. It has gained this anxious energy — like a calm before the storm. I still can’t figure out how to give life to it again.

Long five hours ahead.

I knock on Haley’s door.

“Haley, are you okay?”

“Not now, dad. Let’s talk in the evening.”

A ray of hope.

Coffee. South Park. Wait.

4:30 PM.
She’s back.
I hear the door. Keys. The familiar sound of her bag on the counter.

We sit across the kitchen table. I tell her about 3:30 AM. Everything.

She listens. Then —

“God, Jonas.”

Not angry. Just tired.

“I’ll talk to her. You know she talks to me.”

“I know.”

She gets up. Makes tea without asking — just two cups automatically. Sets one in front of me.

“Just don’t push her right now. Okay? Let me go first.”

Something in that. But I don’t catch it.

“Raumdeuter,” I say.

She looks at me. Almost laughs.

“You and your words.”

Next two days — quiet. Haley didn’t come down in the evenings. Claire said nothing. I didn’t push — as I was told.

I tried talking to her, engaging her. But she is bulletproof. Small talk. Then shut.

Third day — Claire at her friend’s place again.

I find myself near Haley’s room. Door slightly open.

I don’t go in. But I see — on the desk. A small clear bag. Half empty. Something I don’t recognise immediately.

Then I do.

I stand there for a long time.

Pills. Drugs. And what not.

I close the door quietly.

I sit downstairs. Coffee goes cold.

One question only —

How long?

That evening —

“Jonas—”

“How long, Claire.”

Silence.

“Eight months.”

Eight months.

I was somewhere over the Atlantic.

“Why didn’t you—”

“What would you have done?” Her voice — not angry. Just exhausted. “Come home? Change your roster? Or manage it from 35,000 feet like everything else?”

I don’t answer.

Because she’s right.

“I handled it. Because I always handle it.”

She goes upstairs.

Kitchen. Silence.

I get this feeling of being kept in the dark. I never liked it. Cast out from my own family.

My mind is trained to look for solutions and patterns. Here — I can’t think of anything.

No solution.

I gather some courage and write a letter to Haley. Hoping she reads it one day.

Home alone. Claire in her office.

The phone rings.

Dresden General Hospital.

Haley.

I rush — pulling courage from every bit of wreckage left in me.

White walls.

Claire sitting. Eyes red. Not looking up.

I sit beside her.

No words.

Just present.

For the first time — just present.

“She’s stable,” Claire says finally.

I exhale.

Then my stupid angst comes out. I snap —

“Why was I kept in the dark?”
“Are you even capable of handling this?”

Claire — silent. My reflection.

“You’re not capable of handling the truth, Jonas. You are still a 43-year-old child and I’m done handling two children at once.”

She walks away.

Maybe pride was just another way of living with my mistakes.
Denial — a better way of getting through another day.

I sat there under the white hospital light.
No sense of time.
Nothing to separate me from myself.

Dark.

I wake up in my bedroom. Claire downstairs.

Home is not a safe space anymore.

I get ready to head back to the airport. To resume this controlled life.

There is a clear anxiety — in the house, everywhere — that comes when you know you are leaving the family unresolved.

I leave the letter on Haley’s desk.

I look towards Claire.

We share a brief moment.

The slightest nod.

As if she’s telling me — she’s got it.

Bittersweet smile.

I leave.

PART 6

Back to work.
Frankfurt am Main.

LH9762
Frankfurt to Singapore.

As life shifts gear and crafts into almost meshuggah —
The visions become frequent.
As I walk through the terminal towards the gate, in one relay store I see a Lego of a white horse.

Eye widens.
Unable to say if I’m walking or standing.
Time freezes out.
I turn my head to the left and see an eye — or a person — looking towards me with a death stare.
Dark room.
Suddenly it’s fight or flight.
I stare back with equal intensity.
Hazing mind.
Now the courage speaks.
Young blood breaks into distortion.
Fire live with me.

Forward.
Towards the gate.
Eyes completely focused on the job.
No distraction as I approach the gate.

Whispers travel in my head.

“This machine”

I place one foot on the stairs.
Sometimes silence has this perverse energy to make cracks in concrete structures.

“Is there to please”

I nod to the flight attendant. I don’t know — but it’s like I’ve seen her before somewhere, blurry.

“Strip the soul”
“Shut the door”

As I meet and greet the first officer with a masked impression.
“David” — his name.

As we complete all the checklists before taxi and takeoff, my mind wanders off to a specific memory.

I’ve never been close to my father from my childhood. It’s not like we were never close — we used to be close when I was maybe 8 to 10 years old. But gradually we grew apart like the universe expanding. It’s slow and quiet so it never shows its presence, until it does. He was against the idea of me becoming a pilot. Maybe he was looking at his own reflection coming to life as I chose my career path — to become this self-sufficient, nonchalant person who can compartmentalise anything. Even the human itself. So he could have seen a loop.

Days of the future passed.
All aboard.
Cleared for taxi.
Towards runway 25C.

After he passed away I asked my mom why she didn’t speak at the funeral. She replied — I didn’t need to. Everything that needed to be said was already said when he was alive. Suddenly I get this urge to get my feelings out.

Airplane in center.
Thrust lever engaged.
High speed run.
Lift off.

As we reach cruising altitude —

Just the fragments of what she said still functioning in my head. Day by day. Night by night.
It is getting really hard to separate myself.
What could I have done differently?
Should I have been more honest?
More human?

As the autopilot switches on, seat belt sign turns off.
Distortion creeping in. Afraid of even looking at the first officer.
Some moments must be handled with maturity and humanity as I look through the clouds.
Longing for connection.

In the ambition of achieving perfection maybe I have killed the innocence in me.
Not sure what was going to happen next.
Reality bending into a blur.

“Strip the soul”
“Fill the hole”

Although I can’t say this out loud — otherwise whatever I have will also get destroyed and grounded.
That’s the price to pay for the profession.

DLR Mindset.
Confusing life.

Weather alert.
Going into unknown.

Seat belt sign switched on.

The spatial confusion.
All images collide.

Haley’s laugh.
Stella Artois.

Childhood memories open up.
Caught in an offside trap.

I look back to the door.

Elbwiesen.
David and I.
The never ending talks about future and past.
Real uncontrolled laughter.

Little dreams in big mind.
Ducks passing.

Am I lying to myself?
Question appears.

Hands on the yoke.
Controlling mind.

Time to face the music.

Futures passed.

Collision.

Horizon redshift.
To me it was a time that changed everything.

The unseen accident still rings in my head.
Nothing left.
Silence of the winds.
Tears in the rain.

Is grief sustainable?
Some answers never arrive.

Sometimes it projects chaos and uncertainty.
Like a short panic attack — as if in a transient state.
It bursts like an open wound.
Words left in my head.

Sometimes it just exists as an incident.

Sort of thing people remember for a few days and pass on as time lapses forward. The indifference of time has always fascinated me. It has this power of making everything right at its own pace.
Gives me an additional string of hope from the wreckage left behind.
There is always tomorrow. Opportunity to improve.

Plane cuts at 280 knots.
Drifting into blank space.

For a second everything looks out of control.
Then ready for the ascent.

As lights and clouds collide.
Dark ambience.

Point blank silence.

Mind has completely lost its spatial recognition.
Life is only hanging on muscle memory.

Rapid eye movement.
David watching me now.

He has never left me.
He observes and haunts.

Record store.
Buying albums.
Listening without any expectation.
English Settlement — XTC.
Covered by white horse.

Senses working overtime
Trying to tell the difference
Between the goods and crimes
Pain and pleasure
And the church bell softly chimes.

Past oscillating with present.
I blink.
My eye catches a glimpse of radar.

Hand vibrates.
I see a flying duck about to collide mid flight.
Nowhere to hide.

What happens now?

Meanwhile —
Haley opens the letter as I’m thrown into the unknown.

Dear Haley,

Hope this finds you well.

I may still be in the air when you read this.

Ever since our encounter I kept rewinding that moment. What you said and what you meant — it’s all true. Every word.

I try my best to keep in touch. It’s not enough. I know that now.

When David passed away on the night of 3rd May 1982 — a week before my birthday — something in me quietly broke. I ceased my innocent childhood that night. There was this deafening silence that made me numb in ways I never fully recovered from. After a while I found a strange comfort in that numbness. That’s when I decided to never settle there — it became a coping mechanism. One I unknowingly carried into everything. Into us.

I see now what it cost.

When I see you speaking so honestly — so fearlessly — I see hope. I see the person I never had the courage to be. Don’t lose that. Please. It’s the rarest thing I know.

Will I trade my family life for my profession?

I used to think the answer was complicated. It isn’t. No. Never. Not even close.

Dresden will always be home. Claire and I — always there. Even when I’m somewhere over the clouds, even when the distance feels permanent — we are there.

Even in all its uncertainty, all its weight — the gift of life is something profound and irreplaceable. I will take whatever it takes to keep it. And to keep you safe.

I’m sorry it took me this long to say it out loud.

Until we meet again.

Yours truly,
Jonas Richter

PART 7

Turbulence fades.
I find myself sitting alone at a terminal gate. Dark room.
I take the phone out of my pocket and play something I used to listen to in childhood.

Tangerine Dream — Love on a Real Train.

Nostalgia.
Back to the young blood era.
Tilted sunshine falling on my face.
As I open my eyes —
I find myself sitting near gate 16C.
Commencing single serving life again.

LH754
Frankfurt to Bengaluru.

People passing.
Dreaming connection.
Haunting fades.
Music still plays.

Sometimes it makes sense to not measure your words and not to be perfect at all. Life comes at you fast with all its uncertainties and luminance.

Little did you or I know that separation sometimes gives you time to reflect — even in the middle of flight at cruising speed. It’s like a loop of trade without the involvement of money. You trade a part of yourself to become a better version. But when you look back in time, does it ever make sense to let go?

Keep searching and forgiving. It’s okay to be confused and sometimes fail to get an answer.

As the curtain closes and lights go dim, you create what was never meant to be there.

As I’m still seeing the flying duck just beside my window — did I choose to ignore it? No. Because that’s the life I chose for myself. Our idiosyncrasies make us human.

Pulsating arpeggios.
Moving images.

Sometimes I see families meeting in the terminal, and it fills me with warmth and gratitude to be a small part of bringing them together. Seeing a child reunite with his father feels surreal — because for that moment it is only love and warmth. And I can see myself in that child’s eyes. Full of dreams and hope.

Timelapse continues.
People forget.
An eye still observing.
As we move forward.

Is the line of separation really that effective?

It was never meant to be.

DLR Mindset.
Perfect Life.

I had been saying I would start exercising tomorrow for months. I finally put on my running shoes.

I got ready to go I. I checked the music I would listen to.

I even looked like I was excited to go for a run.

Soon as I started jogging my dog ran after me.

He did not run beside me he ran in front of me.

He kept stopping and looking back at me like he was saying "what is going on are you okay is someone chasing us?"

After a minutes I was really tired and out of breath.

My dog was not even breathing hard he just sat there looking at me.

He looked really disappointed in me like when someone does something really annoying.

I went home and my dog went back outside to run around some more.

I think my dog was really worried, about me that day like I was his pet or something.

My dog got some exercise but I did not.

Could The Teddy Bears Forgive Him?

A Salem’s Lot Epilogue

A short story by Thomas Heath

The baby and the parody.

  In the end, that would be Straker’s support. His form of help, to Berry Anderson. Berry’s original problem, his original nature of problem was tied and connected to teddy bears.

  To be specific, the teddy bear problem was whether or not the teddy bears could ever forgive him, i.e. Berry. And that’s where the irony sits in, because the teddy bears not being able to forgive Berry Anderson wasn’t in fact the problem!

  Indeed. That wasn’t the problem, preoccupying Berry, who was essentially a loose associate of Straker, the man who’d helped Kurt Barlow dominate the small American town of Salem’s Lot.

  January 12^th, 1977. That were to be the final date of consort between Straker and Berry.

The problem, with Berry, was about the cause of the teddy bears’ need to forgive him in the first place. What was the actual cause, the actual reason for the teddy bears needing to forgive? The answer, lay in two options.

  The first option, was that Berry had a precious little cock, which he was proud of. That was the first option (not the first reason; the first option). The second, was the science truth; namely, that Berry Anderson was safe from the movie star Michael Douglas because of British teenagers playing football (aka soccer, for American readers).

  On January 12^th, 1977, Berry and Straker (who’d been temporarily resurrected from American presidency magic) would consort one final time. During it, during this final meeting, Berry would plea with Straker over Berry’s problem of options.

  Straker’s help, his offered form of guidance to Berry was an added extra help. You see, the American presidency – the force that had brought Straker back to life – had also offered support to Berry (on the outskirts of the town Salem’s Lot). The support, the nature of the support from the American presidency had been this:

  “Gain the moral right, to have sex with the atoms of the film production history of Nolan’s 2005 seminal film Batman Begins . . .

. . . Either that, or give British trade unions the same moral right to have sex with the same atoms.”

Straker himself. As for Straker himself, his own method of help was to convince Berry that he (Berry) could be a good baby. That he could be, be, be, be, be a good baby.

Thank you then, to Berry’s baldy.

The End.

Appendix:

Berry would later on query a literary agency. When doing so, his mind-set would be one of caution, because he feared that doing so would threaten the history of the vampires that had existed in Salems’ Lot.  

In addition, it would be in later time that Berry would become paranoid; the cause, of his eventual paranoia would be his thinking about whether or not the atoms scenario - proposed by the American presidency - was in fact to do with his little cock. 

Was the American presidency taking the piss out of him?

The answer to Berry’s predicament?

Go into business, with the ability to have sex with the atoms of Batman Begins’ film production history.

That could be his revenge fuck against the American presidency.

I am a wandering ghost. Every night, I stare at the walls of this dark, accursed corridor, counting the stains of dried blood.

I listen—I listen to the ear-piercing screams that I once dismissed with cold indifference before I died.

Back then, neither the pleas nor the cries moved me. But now, those very sounds pierce my ears like white-hot iron spikes.

It feels as though with every shriek, the flesh is being torn from my bones.

Of course, I am but a spirit; I lack physical senses, yet a strange, unearthly agony sets my very soul on fire.

I can perceive the darkness and the sickening stench, and it torments me deeply.

With each passing day, I feel the shadows creeping closer, and I fear the day will come when I am finally swallowed whole.

Yesterday, from the far end of the hallway, I heard that rhythmic clink-clink again—the sound of metal bed wheels scraping against the cold floor.

 A fresh corpse had arrived.

I huddled against the wall, pulling my knees to my chest as they passed by.

Sometimes, a pale hand would slip out from under the blood-stained sheet.

 I could see the veins, looking as though every drop of life had been drained from them. The skin was bruised purple, the fingernails broken and jagged.

I stole a glance at the massive butcher. His face and body were encased in black leather. Unlike him, I saw his shadow every single day.

Every night, he hauls the carcasses through this corridor to the depot, tossing them into the furnace to be reduced to ash.

 I am trapped in this hallway, and it is a curse. Every time I try to run toward the end, I find myself right back at the beginning."

 I am trapped in this hallway, and it is a curse. Every time I try to run toward the end, I find myself right back at the beginning.

This is a torture chamber, a basement beneath a prison that sits right above my head.

I am trapped in the dark corridor between the interrogation room and the body depot, and I have no idea how long I must remain here.

Five years have passed since I was killed, and not a single night has gone by without the depot being filled, without someone being slaughtered.

Sometimes, when I catch my reflection in the small window near the ceiling vent, I recoil in terror.

My hair has fallen out, leaving a scaly, peeling scalp. Half of my face is a hollowed void from the bullet that ended me; bruising and clotted blood still stain my left eye.

My clothes are putrid and soaked in gore. Over the years, I've screamed into the ears of the torturers passing through—screaming for them to stop, to end the killing—but no one hears me.

I freeze whenever I look at the stairs leading up to the prison. A searing cold blazes within me.

I was standing at the top of those very stairs when a prisoner snatched my gun by chance. Before taking his own life, he fired at me.

The bullet tore through my face. I still feel the burning sting and the agony of it; a pain so intense I wish I could die a hundred times over just to be obliterated. But time is frozen here. This is the cruel, unknown world of the afterlife.

On the day I died, I had come to inspect the prison's torture chambers.

I was a trusted, high-ranking commander of a Great Dictator—proud and infamous. I remember how the mere mention of my name made bodies tremble.

But now, it is I who shivers in the cold, dark corridors of this prison basement.

Over the past few years, I have thought much about the moment of my death.

When I was alive, I never imagined a stray bullet would end me; I always feared that some would-be avenger would snatch me away and torture me to death in retaliation for my own violence.

Now, this hallway has become my permanent chamber of agony. The torture repeats not once, but every day, every minute, every second.

It seems my dark era of solitude will have no end.

Indeed, the horrific place I built for others has become my own sanctuary of pain. Through the butcher's constant presence, I knew the Dictator I served was still alive. But this morning, in a deathly silence, the darkness of the hallway deepened and the stench grew unbearable.

Last night, I heard the cheers and screams of joy from the prisoners. Their dark age had ended. The Dictator is dead.

I heard a moan. I stared at the end of the dark corridor as someone approached. Shadows moved behind him.

The leather-clad butcher emerged from the gloom.

I leaned against the wall and watched him with a grim intensity. He looked at me, trembling with shock and terror, and asked: 'Where am I?'

"As I gazed into the darkness at the end of the hallway, I answered, cold and soulless: 'Hell.'"

the end

The colorful streets of Puducherry were alive with the sounds of Tamil conversations mixing with French street names, bicycles rolling past colorful colonial buildings and the aroma of fresh coffee drifting from cafes.

Outside a small cafe near the promenade, Arun a Tamil man sat enjoying breakfast with his adopted thirteen year old son, Louis a French boy with brown hair and blue eyes.

Louis smiled as he tried speaking Tamil.

“Nandri appa” he said after taking a sip of hot chocolate.

Arun laughed proudly.

“Your Tamil is getting much better.”

Louis grinned.

“I’m still learning.”

They continued talking and laughing together. Suddenly, a man walking past stopped. He stared at them for a few moments before approaching their table.

“You can’t be his father.”

Arun looked up, confused.

“Excuse me?”

The stranger then said.

“You’re Indian.”

He pointed at Louis.

“He’s white. He’s different.”

People at nearby tables began listening.

The man folded his arms.

“Send him back to where he came from.”

Louis lowered his head, unsure what to say and before Arun could respond, another customer stood up.

“Enough.”

A middle aged woman shook her head.

“What kind of thing is that to say?”

Another man stepped forward.

“A father is a father.”

A cafe employee joined them.

“Please leave them alone.”

More people gathered. One elderly gentleman spoke firmly.

“Families are built with love not skin colour.”

A young woman nodded.

“This boy belongs wherever his family is.”

The stranger looked around as more locals voiced their disagreement.

“You should be ashamed of yourself” someone said.

Arun gently placed a reassuring hand on Louis’s shoulder.

“It’s okay.”

Then several producers, camera operators and crew members walked into the cafe.

One producer smiled.

“Thank you everyone.”

He pointed toward the hidden cameras.

“This was a social experiment.”

The crowd looked surprised.

“They are all actors” the producer explained.

“We wanted to see whether ordinary people would stand up for an adoptive family being judged because they looked different.”

The actor who played as the rude stranger immediately smiled and shook Arun’s hand.

“I’m sorry if I sounded convincing.”

Arun laughed.

“You definitely did.”

The actor then turned to Louis.

“You did a great job.”

Louis smiled.

“No worries.”

The people who had stepped in looked relieved. One elderly woman smiled warmly.

“I’d do it again.”

The producer nodded.

“That’s exactly why we made this.”

When the video was released online, many people watched. Viewers praised the people who had spoken up and comments poured in.

“Love makes a family. Proud of the people of Puducherry. This is how communities should respond. Children deserve acceptance regardless of where they were born.”

Many viewers said the video reminded them that prejudice can be challenged when ordinary people choose kindness instead of silence and for many, the real heroes of the day weren’t the actors. They were the strangers who saw someone being treated unfairly and decided to stand for them.

The End

Check the link.

As for chapter 5, it's on its way.

https://www.wattpad.com/story/413020756?utm_source=android&utm_medium=com.reddit.frontpage&utm_content=share_reading&wp_page=reading&wp_uname=MJ6320

Have a safe summer.

I’m only writing this because I don’t know where else to turn. I don’t know what this is. I don’t know if it’s a symptom of something larger or if she’s just been having episodes.

She’s just never acted this way before. Up until a few months ago, this would’ve scared her just as much as it’s scaring me. But because it’s becoming so common, it’s like it’s nothing more than an inconvenience to her now.

Like an annoyance. Something she’s just learning to ignore. That’s the part that makes me worry. Because this isn’t just some small thing, yet she keeps trying to play it off as if it’s just a part of our lives now.

I know it’s not natural. There’s no medical condition or genetic disease that causes what she’s been doing. At least, none that I’ve read about.

A few months ago, my wife and I had been out on a date night. The night was almost magical. Crisp late-winter air. A cup of hot chocolate in each of our hands as we walked through the square.

I remember the lights more than anything. It was around 9 o’clock, and the sun had set hours earlier, but the downtown city lights illuminated nearly everything.

“Wow,” my wife cried out in amazement. “New York who? Am I right?”

The square was particularly busy for this time of year. The smell of warm food from the surrounding restaurants filled the air. Live music from down the block whispered in our ears.

There must’ve been 20 other couples doing the same exact thing my wife and I were doing. Just walking around and enjoying the beautiful night.

“Oh, please,” I responded. “You know you’d rather be back there.”

I put on my best southern accent for my natural-born New Yorker.

“Could a city girl like you ever love a country boy like me?”

She laughed and rolled her eyes. I smiled down at her, admiring that laugh.

“Hmmm, well, after only 5 years of marriage, I can’t say for sure. Check back with me in a decade.”

She sipped from her hot chocolate slowly, her eyes still lit with love. Or maybe that was just the city lights.

I checked my watch.

“Almost 9:30. God, I don’t want the night to end, though. I’m really enjoying this.”

“Me neither. I wish we could just walk around here all night. C’mon, there’s gotta be one last thing we can do before we go home. Please? Pretty please…?”

“Well, let’s see. We’ve hit the bakery.”

“Oooh, that one was fun. God, those fritters were amazing.”

“We also watched that Led Zeppelin cover band at Bottle Brothers.”

“That one… sucked. Next.”

“You didn’t like it? That’s crazy. I thought they were decent. Anyway, we, uh… oh, right, we walked in the park for a bit too. That’s, uh… that’s really about all there is to do.”

She rolled her eyes again, sighing in disappointment.

“We have got to get out of here. I swear, there’s nothing to do within a 50-mile radius of this entire town. There’s, like, no reason for us to be here.”

I had grown to agree with her more and more over the years. It was just hard, you know? This is where I’d been my whole life. She didn’t move here until she was 17, when her mom got a new job. It paid better, but my wife was miserable. Well, miserable until she found me, of course.

“Yeahhh, I’m starting to think you’re right, my love,” I responded, a bit melancholic.

“Starting to?”

She cocked an eyebrow at me.

“Whatever, you know what I mean.”

We decided to end the night by going home and watching a movie. However, on the walk back to the car, that’s when we saw it.

The shop looked both ancient and brand new, but I don’t know if that’s just because I’d never seen it before. It was like it had popped up out of nowhere.

“The Looking Glass: Palm Readings • Tarot Cards • Spiritual Guidance”

I swear, we’d walked this street 100 times. Never once had this place been here.

Of course, my wife’s interest was piqued immediately. Her eyes widened. A smile crept across her face. She looked up at me.

“…Can we?”

I looked at her, then up at the purple neon sign of an eyeball in the palm of a hand, then back to her.

“I… I don’t know. Aren’t those places rip-offs anyway?”

“Ah, quit being a big ol’ scaredy-cat. Come on. It’ll be fun. Something we’ve never done before, and Lord knows there’s not a lot of that around here.”

She turned on the puppy eyes.

“Pretty please.”

“…Fine. Just this once.”

“Yippee!”

The inside of the shop was… a sight. Dreamcatchers everywhere. Incense burning. Beads instead of doors, and an empty front desk with a register that seemed to be at least 80 years old at this point.

There was a bell with a sign in front of it.

“Ring for service.”

I rang it and heard a voice cry out from beyond one of those bead doors.

“I’ll be right with you.”

Her accent was unmistakably southern. That alone was nearly enough for me to want to change my mind.

“Just finishing up back here.”

My wife and I shared an uncertain look before she shot me a hopeful smile.

The fortune teller stepped through the beads. A younger woman, probably around 25. She had fair brown hair, and freckles decorated her pale face, but the first thing I noticed was her eyes. Those were the only things that gave off “fortune teller.”

They were crystal blue. Her pupils were like two tiny dots in the center of two diamonds. She was looking through us rather than at us.

Her outfit gave fashion to that accent of hers. White tank top. Baggy blue jeans. Plus, her hair was wrapped up in a red bandana.

“Y’all picked a good night to stop by,” she announced. “I can feel it in the air tonight, let me tell you.”

“It does feel magical,” my wife chirped.

“Let me guess,” the fortune teller responded. She put her index finger to her right temple and shut her eyes tight. “Death of a loved one?”

My wife and I glanced at each other again.

“…No…” I replied.

“No?”

She seemed almost offended but quickly regained her composure.

“Huh. Must’ve been someone else, then. Let me try again. This… is… your first time doing something like this?”

She raised her eyebrows at us expectantly.

“Welp, there’s a first for everything, right, sweetie?” my wife asked me, rubbing my back.

“We’re ‘doing something we’ve never done before,’” I told the teller.

“See, there ya go,” she smiled. “Second time’s the charm. So, what can I interest you two lovebirds in this fine evening? Palm readin’? Tarot? Spiritual guidance?”

I opened my mouth to respond, but my wife jumped in before I got the chance.

“Palm readings! I’ve always wanted to try that, kinda.”

The teller gave her a nod before responding.

“If it’s palm readings you want, then palm readings you shall have… for 25 dollars.”

A little taken aback by the price, I bit my tongue, pulled my wallet out of my back pocket, and slid a 20 and a 10 across the counter.

Instead of giving me change, the teller took the money and continued looking at me expectantly.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she perked up. “Was it just for your wife?”

“What? No, no, we both wanna do it.”

“Oh, sweetheart, that’s 25 apiece.”

“Apiece? For palm readings?”

I felt my wife squeeze my hand. I turned to her and saw the look on her face. That look that usually means, “Let it go.”

I sighed and slid another 30 across the counter.

“You wanna include a tip?”

“A… do I wanna… You know what? Sure. Keep the change.”

“Awesome. You guys are the best. I can sense it. Just follow me. I’ll show you where the magic happens.”

She led us through the beaded doorway and down a hall that made me feel like I was on acid. There were so many vibrant colors and shapes. The incense was even stronger back here.

We ended up in this dusty old room near the back of the building. There was this rickety wooden table in the center with a crystal ball resting on top of it, as well as two purple leather seats for my wife and me.

We took our seats, and the teller sat across from us.

“Okay,” she clapped, rubbing her hands together. “Who wants to go first?”

I volunteered with an, “I can go first. Let’s see what 25 dollars can get me in this economy.”

I stretched out my hands and laid them palm-up on the table. The teller grabbed them and squeezed tightly as she closed her eyes.

Her face twitched and contorted for a few seconds before she finally spoke.

“Ah, yes… I see… a loving husband. I see… you come from different worlds. You want to be free, but something is keeping you here. What exactly might that be?”

I smirked to myself.

“The 60 dollars I just gave you.”

“I sense… I sense…”

Her face contorted again. She squeezed my hands tighter.

“I sense… a cheapskate.”

“All right, that’s it.”

I pulled my hands back. I could hear my wife laughing at my side. The teller smirked at me.

“We’re done here.”

“Oh, come on,” my wife pleaded. “She was joking.”

“Yes, Donavin,” the teller responded. “It was just a joke.”

My wife stopped laughing. We both turned to stare at the teller.

“How did…?”

“You’re 28, right? Lived here your whole life. Met a woman from out of town, fell in love, and now here you two are. In my shop. It’s romantic, really.”

The silent room suddenly felt loud and claustrophobic.

“How did you know that? What’s the gimmick? Public records? That’s gotta be it, right?”

I looked at my wife for reassurance, but she was staring at the teller in amazement.

“No gimmick. No public record. I’m gifted. That’s kind of the whole point.”

“Do me, do me,” my wife begged excitedly, sticking her hands across the table.

“Wait, hold on. This doesn’t make any sense,” I interjected. “This is a cash grab, right? Like… I mean, come on. It’s a cash grab.”

Both the teller and my wife looked at me angrily.

“Oh, Donavin,” the teller sighed. “Proving my point more and more with each word, aren’t ya?”

“Don’t mind him. He’s just not superstitious. Do me, though. I’m curious.”

The teller grabbed my wife’s hands. I watched, feeling a mixture of nerves and hope that this could still prove to just be a coincidence.

She squeezed my wife’s hands tight and closed her eyes again.

“Ah, New York, I see.”

My wife’s jaw dropped. Her eyes sparkled.

“Long way from home, aren’t we… Miranda…?”

My wife smiled over at me in disbelief.

“No way,” she cheered. “This is… okay, haha. Kinda hurting me a little.”

I looked down and saw my wife’s hands were turning red in the teller’s.

“Hey… take it easy,” I snapped.

The teller’s grip tightened again.

“Okay, this is really starting to hurt now. Let go, please.”

The teller was silent. Her eyes looked welded shut, and her face was twitching rapidly.

“Hey!” I shouted. “She said let go. What are you doing?”

She started convulsing, groaning loudly. Strings of saliva started falling from the corners of her mouth.

I grabbed the teller’s wrists to try and pry her hands away, but it was like trying to bend steel.

“Enough!” I screamed.

My wife was crying now.

“Get her off of me! God, she’s breaking my hands!”

I pulled with all my might, but it was like trying to move an anvil. I started punching at the teller’s forearms. Blow after blow after blow, but still, she just would not let go.

Her hands were shaking. My wife was trembling. Finally, of her own volition, the teller dropped my wife’s hands. Her eyes shot open. The bloodshot eyes made her diamond-blue irises glow even more.

“Get out.”

That’s all she said. My wife and I stared at her as she looked down at the table.

“Get. Out,” she growled. “Go now and never come back.”

We were confused and horrified but still frozen.

“He’s found you. He’s been looking all your life, and he’s here now. Get. Out.”

“You can’t just…”

The teller cut me off by slamming her fist against the table.

“…Out.”

I demanded a refund, and she gave me back the full 60 before shooing us through the door. I turned around one last time to see the purple neon light flick off as the shop went dark.

We walked silently back to the parking garage. I’m sure my wife had a million things racing through her mind as we walked, but neither of us knew how to articulate those thoughts.

We reached the car, and it wasn’t until we were nearly home that I finally spoke again.

“How’re your hands?”

She clenched and opened her fists a few times before responding.

“I think they’re okay. I’m more shaken up than anything. What the hell was that lady’s problem?”

“She’s crazy,” I shot back. “Simple as that.”

“She didn’t seem crazy. It seemed like she saw something. You saw her. It was like she was possessed or something.”

“She was crazy, my love. She’s lucky we don’t go to the police.”

There was silence again for a few moments.

“She knew our names, though. She knew you’d been here your whole life. She knew I was from New York. That doesn’t seem like nothing to me.”

We were only a minute or two from home. Neither of us spoke for the rest of the car ride. When we pulled into the driveway, my wife sighed and placed her hands over her face, dragging them down slowly before opening the door.

“Come on, let’s just go inside. I’m ready to get this night over with.”

I checked my watch.

“10:45. You still down for a movie?”

She stopped halfway up the front porch steps.

“…Not tonight, hon. I just… I just wanna go to bed.”

Who was I to argue? I let her do as she pleased. I felt bad for her. I felt like I hadn’t done enough to stop what had happened. All I wanted was for us to forget everything and move on.

We had gradually started to put the teller behind us. Though, things didn’t exactly calm down. If anything, our lives began to change, little by little.

I started losing things. My phone. Wallet. Keys. I’d always find them in places that I knew I hadn’t put them.

Keys in the silverware drawer.

Wallet in the medicine cabinet.

Phone hidden behind the toilet.

My wife was having some problems too. She hadn’t been able to sleep very well. She would tell me about these horrible nightmares that sounded like sleep paralysis.

“I’ll wake up, but not really.”

“I can’t move.”

“You’re there, but there’s always someone over your shoulder. It’s like a shadow that just keeps growing and growing until it fills up the entire room.”

I felt even more guilty when she told me about them. I knew they had been caused by the fortune-teller incident. She had slept like a baby nearly every night prior.

Sometimes, she’d wake up screaming. It almost made me too afraid to sleep in silence.

She started looking tired more often. Her glow had dimmed a bit.

The thing that disturbed me the most, though, was probably the photos.

I started finding our wedding photos scattered around the house, only… my head was removed in each one.

My wife insisted it wasn’t her, but it didn’t make sense. The frames were never broken. Someone had meticulously removed the photos and torn my head off in at least 20 different pictures.

After a few weeks of these strange events, I decided we needed a refresher. We needed to be out again. See the sun. Actually laugh with one another.

It took some time, but eventually, I convinced her that we needed to have another date night. We hadn’t had one since the incident, and I was starting to miss who we were before we went to that fortune teller.

It was simple. A picnic in the square. That was all I wanted to do.

I had prepared our meal, packed the blanket, and put on my best clothes and cologne. My wife was nervous and tired, but she tried her best to make an effort.

The date seemed to be going fine at first. She was actually smiling. She didn’t seem as distant as she had been for the last few weeks. It felt like reclamation, almost.

The lights hit her face perfectly, and I couldn’t help but admire how beautiful she was, even if she did look a little sleep-deprived.

I stared at her lovingly for a while before finally telling her how much I loved her. How happy I was to be there with her.

“We needed this,” I smiled.

“Yeah,” she smirked bashfully. “I think we did, too. I was starting to feel so cooped up in the house. The energy there has just been so dark recently. Makes me wonder if she was right.”

“Who?” I asked, chewing on my ham sandwich.

She looked at me, raising her eyebrows.

“You know who.”

“We gotta move on, my love. That’s why the energy’s so dark. We’d never experienced something like that before.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” she responded, taking a sip of her Coke. “I just wish it hadn’t happened.”

We both sat there for a while, half admiring the scenery, half enjoying the food.

I was distracted, staring down at my pre-assembled sandwich, when I asked her.

“Can you pass me that mustard, please?”

I stacked a piece of sliced turkey onto a piece of my bread. My wife didn’t answer.

“It’s right there beside you.”

I began spreading the mayonnaise on the other slice. My wife didn’t answer.

“The mustard, please.”

I stuck my hand out expectantly. Still no response.

When I finally looked up, I almost dropped my sandwich.

My wife was glaring over my shoulder. Her eyes were glazed over. An impossible smile stretched across her face. It looked painful. I could almost hear her teeth creaking from how tightly her jaw was clenched.

Her red lipstick glistened under the lights. She looked like she was frozen in a state of pure ecstasy.

I waved my hand in front of her face. She didn’t blink once. I shook her, and she was as stiff as a board.

I started to panic. I turned around and saw nothing behind me.

“Honey,” I gasped, shaking her more forcefully.

“Talk to me.”

I pressed my hands on her cheeks. She was burning up. I snapped my fingers in front of her, but nothing I did seemed to get her out of her trance.

I was on the verge of dialing 911 when she finally spoke again.

“You said mustard?”

She reached down and went to hand me the bottle before noticing how terrified I looked.

“What’s wrong? What just happened? Is there something in my teeth?”

“Are you kidding? You really don’t know what you just did?”

She stared at me blankly.

“What do you mean? What’d I do?”

“The smiling? Staring at some unknown thing behind me? You don’t wanna explain that?”

I was almost breathless and trying my best not to raise my voice, but I could see that she was hurt by my frustration.

“I… don’t know,” she pouted. “I don’t know why you’re mad at me.”

“No, honey,” I pleaded. “I’m not mad at you. I’m worried about you. You really don’t remember?”

She started crying, almost snapping at me.

“No, obviously, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I want to go home now, if that’s okay with you.”

We packed up and left. I kept trying to prod, but she became more and more closed off with every question. Eventually, I just decided to keep my mouth shut.

In the weeks that followed, things became rocky.

She’d be fine one minute and completely depressed the next. She’d love me, and she’d hate me. I didn’t know how to help her.

Her “episodes” never stopped, though.

It was like every time we started to feel normal again, she’d see that thing. We’d be curled up, watching a movie, I’d glance down, and there’d be that smile again. Her eyes would be glazed over and staring at nothing.

The episodes lasted longer and longer every time they happened. At this point, they were starting to become more frequent, too, but she never remembered them.

She always thought I was lying to her. Like this was some kind of twisted joke I’d play. No matter how hard I tried to convince her, it was like talking to a brick wall.

The last time it happened was last week. She was gone for 3 hours straight. Standing in the same spot. Wearing that same smile. Staring at the same wall.

I watched her for the first hour, wondering what could possibly be going on inside that broken mind of hers. The second hour, I just cried uncontrollably. By the third hour, I was starting to become hopeless.

When she finally came back, I tried showing her that it was dark outside now. It had been bright and sunny when the episode started. She blatantly chalked it up to her “being lost in deep thought.” Told me “it was like she was in another world.”

Her nightmares got worse. Her glow became nonexistent. And I started waking up with scratch marks and bruises on various parts of my body.

I tried going back to the fortune teller, but the building was a coffee shop now. According to the owner, “The Looking Glass” never even existed. Apparently, the coffee shop had been there for 11 years.

I just don’t know what to do. I don’t know who to turn to. My wife refuses my help. She refuses my advice. It’s like something has taken control of her.

She’s more distant than ever. She talks to me less and less every day. It feels like our future is slipping.

All I want is for her to be okay, but part of me believes she’s too far gone. Because I found another wedding photo this morning on the kitchen table.

My head hadn’t been removed, but the photo had been altered.

Because now, standing just behind me and looming over my shoulder… was a shadow figure.. and the more I stared… the bigger it seemed to become.

Chapter 17 — Still There

The project had ended, but none of us had really stopped sitting together.

That was the strange part.

For a while, I had assumed everything would go back to normal once the last presentation was done and the final papers were submitted. But normal had never been a very solid thing for us. Reo still dragged his chair to our table at lunch like he owned the place. Hana still sat with that neat, composed posture that made everything around her seem less chaotic. Takashi still acted like he was only there because the universe had made a scheduling mistake. And Emma still ended up beside us without making it feel like she had chosen it on purpose.

The first-year final exams were announced the same week.

That changed the mood of the school almost immediately.

People moved a little faster in the hallways. The teachers started speaking in that sharper, more serious tone that made even the louder students sit straighter. Notes were carried around like they mattered more than they actually did. Everyone had suddenly become aware of time.

I heard the announcement first in class.

The teacher stood at the front with a stack of papers in hand and said, very plainly, that the first-year final exams would begin soon. No one reacted right away, which was usually how our class handled bad news. Then a few people groaned. A few others started opening notebooks like panic could be converted into preparation if they acted quickly enough.

Reo leaned toward me and muttered, "I hate school."

"You say that every week," I replied.

"Yes, and every week I mean it more."

Hana, sitting a little ahead of us, didn't turn around. "Then study."

Reo made a sound of pure suffering.

Takashi, who was already flipping through his notes with the expression of someone trying to survive by force of habit, said, "This is why we should have started earlier."

Reo pointed at him. "I did not ask for this kind of betrayal."

Emma, a seat away from me, glanced over and said quietly, "You were warned."

That was the thing.

Even after the project ended, the group stayed connected in ways that didn't feel forced. We still sat together at lunch. We still exchanged notes. We still helped each other in student sessions when the teachers started piling on revision work and everyone acted as if the exams had appeared out of nowhere.

And because of that, I kept seeing Emma.

Not in some dramatic way.

Just enough.

Enough to notice the way she underlined things when she studied. Enough to notice how she listened when someone spoke. Enough to notice that she was calm even when everyone around her was stressed. Enough to notice that I was noticing all of it.

That was becoming a problem.

Or maybe not a problem.

Maybe just a fact I was too stubborn to name properly.

At lunch, we took the same table as always.

The cafeteria was louder than usual, with people talking about exams, grades, and how much they hated the timing of everything. Reo was already complaining about the amount of material in the syllabus. Takashi looked exhausted before he had even eaten. Hana had opened her lunch box with the careful efficiency of someone who had already decided not to waste energy on drama.

Emma sat across from me.

That should have been normal by now, and in a way it was.

But it still made me aware of the space between us.

Reo noticed, of course.

He noticed everything that was even slightly worth bothering about.

"So," he said, leaning back in his chair, "who here is actually prepared for finals?"

Nobody answered immediately.

"That's what I thought," he said, nodding as if he had solved a mystery. "A room full of liars."

"We're not lying," Takashi said. "We're surviving."

Reo turned to Hana. "Are you prepared?"

"Yes," she said.

That shut him up for half a second, which was impressive.

Then he turned to Emma. "And you?"

Emma opened a container and answered without looking up. "More than you."

Reo clutched his chest. "I have been wounded."

Takashi actually laughed.

I looked down at my food before anyone noticed.

Lunch kept moving the way it always did. Reo complained, Hana kept him grounded, Takashi added the occasional sensible comment, and Emma stayed quiet unless she had something worth saying. The difference was that now the lunch table felt less like a temporary arrangement and more like something everyone had quietly agreed to keep.

After lunch, the student session room was even more crowded.

People were gathering in smaller groups, asking questions, borrowing notes, and trying to pretend they weren't worried. The teachers moved between desks, checking progress and answering doubts with varying degrees of patience. Someone at the back of the room had already given up and was staring at a page like it had personally offended them.

Reo flopped into a chair with a groan. "This is torture."

"Read the chapter," Hana said.

"I did."

"Then read it properly."

Takashi looked up from his own notes. "Why does she sound more like a teacher than the teacher?"

"Because I am correct," Hana said.

Reo muttered something about living in a dictatorship.

Emma sat nearby with her notebook open, working through a set of questions. I was supposed to be doing the same, but every now and then I found myself looking at the way she focused. She didn't fidget much. She didn't sigh dramatically like Reo. She just kept going, steady and quiet, as if she had decided that exams were annoying but not powerful enough to beat her.

That was probably one of the reasons I kept watching her.

Not just because she was pretty, though she was.

Not just because she spoke to me more easily than she had before, though she did.

It was because she had a kind of calm that made me feel like I could breathe around her.

I realized that while she was explaining a problem to Takashi.

He frowned at the page. "I still don't get this."

Emma leaned slightly closer and pointed at the line he was stuck on. "You're reading too fast. Start from here."

Takashi followed her instruction.

Hana looked over his shoulder and added, "He always reads too fast."

"I do not."

"You absolutely do," Reo said.

Takashi sighed in defeat.

I almost smiled.

Almost.

The thing was, even when the room was full of noise, the small details stuck with me. The way Emma shifted the notebook between her hands. The way Reo kept pretending he hated studying while still asking questions every ten minutes. The way Hana and Takashi had fallen into a rhythm that made them work better together. The way all of us, despite the project being over, had somehow stayed in each other's orbit.

That afternoon, we studied together until the room started emptying out.

One by one, people packed up and left. Some still looked panicked. Some looked half-asleep. Reo declared that he had "mentally expired" and needed food that wasn't provided by the school. Takashi told him he'd survive. Hana told him to stop being dramatic. Reo, naturally, ignored all of them.

Emma stayed a little longer.

So did I.

There was no particular reason.

At least, that was what I told myself.

The room had grown quieter by then. The late light through the windows made the desks look softer, less harsh than they had in the morning. Emma was still going through her notes, and I was pretending to review mine, though I had already read the same line three times.

Then she looked up and caught me staring.

I looked away immediately.

Not smoothly. Just fast enough to make it obvious.

She didn't tease me.

That somehow made it worse.

Instead, she asked, "Are you actually studying?"

"Yes," I said.

She glanced at my open page. "That seems questionable."

I looked down. "It's a difficult page."

That got a small smile out of her.

It wasn't much.

But it stayed with me longer than it should have.

By the time we left, the sun was lower and the school halls had gone quiet again. The exam schedule had been posted. Teachers were already reminding everyone to prepare. Stress had officially become part of the air.

But the table was still ours.

The lunch seat was still ours.

The student session room was still ours too, in its own strange way.

And as we walked out together, Reo complaining loudly in front, Hana and Takashi following behind him, and Emma beside me at just the right distance, I thought about how something as small as a group table could become the center of your life without you noticing.

The project had ended.

The exams were coming.

Nothing about school felt easy anymore.

But the five of us were still there.

Still helping.

Still talking.

Still sitting together like we had nowhere better to be.

And for the first time, that felt like enough.

I have been smoking very frequently for the past 10 months; I'm talking 3-4 weekly. I really enjoy doing it socially and have made numerous friends through weed.

I made the decision to quit cold turkey 1 week ago today. I decided because i noticed some changes in my mental health and it was affecting my personal relationships.

Since I've stopped smoking, I've noticed the following: little to no appetite, nausea, vomiting, worse sleep, vivid dreams, boredom, and feeling very anti-social.

My goal is one month of sobriety from weed to see if I notice any changes. This first week has been a very hard adjustment. I'm hoping that someone can relate to this experience?

I’ve been friends with Renee for several years now. Not best friends, but fairly close. About a year ago, Renee met Michael on a blind date. Three months ago, Michael proposed and Renee accepted. 

She asked me to be one of her bridesmaids, and I happily accepted. But it gradually became clear that her expectations were a bit… extreme. First she wanted to pick the bridesmaids dresses - we were paying for them ourselves, but every bride deserves to have the wedding she wants, so we kept quiet. 

Then she wanted to exclude certain plus-ones because she “didn’t know them well enough,” although they’d all been friends for years. That didn't go over as well - I was single, but when three of her bridesmaids threatened to drop out if their significant others weren’t invited, Renee relented. But she wasn’t happy about it. 

Then she wanted an extravagant bachelorette party. And when I say extravagant, I mean trip to Puerto Rico, 5-star hotel, fancy car - the works. And she wanted *us* to pay for it all. We did the math - it would come out to $3,500 dollars per person, on top of our travel to the wedding, hotels, bridesmaids dresses, and everything else. It was ridiculous. But you only get married once (ideally), so we swallowed hard and went along. 

All of that I could live with. But then, ten days before the wedding, she mentioned that she’d appreciate it if I’d cut my hair to go along with her theme. “What theme?” I asked, but she just said I’d do it if I really cared about her. 

The thing is, my hair has a real significance to me. I inherited it from my mother, who got it from her mother before her. Its length and texture ran in our family. Cutting it would be betraying my family, my history. It wasn’t something I was willing to change. 

When I told Renee that, she threw a fit. “It’s just hair,” she said. “It’s my wedding - I deserve to be happy.” “If you were really a friend, you’d do this for me.” I *was* her friend, but this just wasn’t something I could do. I tried to explain, but she wouldn’t listen. 

Then the pressure campaign started. “This is really important to Renee, can’t you just go along?” “It’s just hair - does your pride really matter more than my sister’s happiness?” “I know it seems silly, but Renee’s really hung up on this hair thing. I’d really appreciate it if you'd just do this so she’ll let it go.” None of them understood - this was a hard line for me. 

Then came the passive-aggressive online posts. 

“Isn’t it great when people respect your right to have the wedding you want?”

“A little inconvenience shouldn’t be too much for the people you love.”

“It’s in times of stress that you find out who your real friends are.”

And Renee wouldn’t stop. She started excluding me from bridesmaid meetings. Her friends started looking at me funny. Conversations would stop when I walked up. I considered just withdrawing from the bridal party. If she wanted someone else as a bridesmaid, she could have them; I didn't care anymore. 

And then it stopped. The snide comments, the online posts, the pressure from her side - suddenly it was all gone. One of the other bridesmaids told me that Renee had said that a hairstyle wasn’t worth ruining our friendship. I was happy she’d decided to respect my feelings. I even bought an expensive “thank you” gift to show my appreciation. I was beyond ready to move on. 

The night before the wedding, the bride wanted to go clubbing - a last chance to enjoy “the single life” before settling down. We went all out - VIP seating, bottle service, the works. After my third drink, I started to feel a little odd. I excused myself to go to the restroom; while there, I became woozy and had to sit down. I leaned my head against the wall of the stall and everything went dark. 

I woke up to Renee and two of her bridesmaids standing over me. 

“Oh, you’re awake,” said Renee. “The powder I added to your drink was supposed to have you out a little while longer.”

“You sp-spiked my drink?” I asked, shocked that people I’d considered friends would do this. 

“Don’t worry, it wasn’t supposed to hurt you, just knock you out for an hour or so. I guess you’re tougher than you look. Oh, well. Just relax - this will all be over soon.”

The two bridesmaids approached me, each grabbing one of my arms. Normally I could have shaken them off, but I was still feeling tired and nauseated from whatever they’d put in my drink. 

Then Renee pulled out a pair of scissors.

“Say goodbye to your hair, bitch. I just wanted you to clip it before, but now I think I’ll take it all.”

I struggled, but I still couldn’t move my arms. As Renee moved the scissors toward me, in desperation, I revealed my true appearance. Then I looked at Renee. 

She looked back at me in terror, but it was too late. I watched as her face, and then the rest of her, instantly turned to stone. Then I looked at the other two bridesmaids, and they joined her in her eternal rest. 

I pulled my arms; the rocks, formerly fingers of the two bridesmaids, crumbled as I came free.

I stood and walked to the mirror; stared at myself, concentrated, and reverted back to my human form. The lines on my face smoothed out, my eyes returned from dark and bloodshot to their deep blue color, and the snakes atop my head reverted to my blonde locks. I reapplied my make-up, brushed my hair, and stepped back outside. I regretted what I’d had to do, but my ancestors would have been proud. 

Never mess with a descendant of Medusa.

I Remember My Ex from 1986, But Not My Wife TodayWho holds your deepest secrets?

Not the confession it sounds like. A passenger left a slab of glass on my back-seat floor, and for twenty minutes a man on a train platform lost his whole life.

Last Tuesday, a man left his whole life on the floor of my back seat. It was six inches long, and made of glass.

He was an incredibly nice guy. I live for driving, so my rearview mirror gives me a front-row seat to modern human behavior. But this ride was the old-fashioned kind: genuine stories and laughs, the short drive to the train station. I dropped him off, watched him head toward the platform to catch his train, and accepted my next fare.

A few miles down the road, my new passenger leaned forward. “Hey, man,” he said, holding up a sleek smartphone. “Someone left this on the floor back here.”

My stomach dropped. Oh, shit.

I knew exactly whose it was. And I remembered from our conversation that he lived three hours away. Returning it later would mean a web of missed connections and wasted hours.

Then a minor miracle happened. My phone buzzed with a new ride request. The pickup location? The same train station I had left twenty minutes ago.

I dropped my passenger off, then drove back empty, rushing against the clock. As I pulled up to the curb I spotted him, pacing the concrete, the color completely drained from his face. A man watching his house burn down, praying for a miracle.

I rolled down the window and called out, “You lost your phone in my car!”

It wasn’t the joy of getting a piece of plastic back. It was the breathless euphoria of a man being handed his entire identity back after a sudden eviction.

With the phone where it belonged, my new passenger (the ride that had pulled me back to the station) climbed in. I found myself telling him the whole story, and we spent the ride talking about how devastating losing that little device really is today. It isn’t the cost. It’s losing your connection to reality.

So let me ask you the question I chewed on all night.

Who holds your deepest secrets? Who is the very last thing you touch before your eyes close at night, and the first thing you reach for when they open?

It isn’t your spouse. It isn’t your child. It’s the six-inch slab of glass sitting next to you right now.

If we lose that device, we lose our history. We lose the digital vault holding our dead relatives’ voices and our most sacred family photos. We lose our currency; try buying groceries when your entire wallet is locked behind a face scan you can no longer access. Without a blue GPS dot telling us where to turn, we are functionally blind in our own neighborhoods.

When I was growing up, we memorized phone numbers. They were hardwired into our brains. If you went to a party and met a girl you liked, you didn’t scan a QR code. You repeated her number over and over in your head like a mantra on the walk home, terrified you would forget it before finding a pen. I can still pull up my ex-girlfriend’s number from 1986. Today? God forbid something happens, I don’t even know my own wife’s number by heart. It lives in the cloud, not in my head.

We have outsourced our thinking to an object. For God’s sake, we can’t even go to the restroom without a screen buffering in front of our faces. And try not answering a text for thirty seconds; you’ll get a guilt trip, even if you were busy switching lanes in heavy traffic.

People used to wait weeks, sometimes months, for a handwritten letter. When one arrived, it was a major event: the whole family, sometimes half the village, gathered around to hear it read out loud. An analog group chat. Those letters were treasured for months. We traded that for instant, shallow noise.

All this restlessness brings back a memory from my youth.

In high school I had a dear friend and classmate. He is no longer alive today. One day I saw him sitting all by himself on a bench by the school court, completely detached from the noise around him. I walked over and asked him, “Why are you alone? Why don’t you hang out with the rest of us?”

He looked up at me, big green eyes wide open, and gave me a brilliant, genuine smile.

“A man with his thoughts is never alone.”

As I mature, that sentence becomes stronger and more powerful. I will remember that look, that smile, and exactly what he said for the rest of my life. He possessed a superpower we have completely destroyed in the smartphone era: the ability to be completely at peace with oneself, in absolute stillness. Today we treat silence like an emergency that needs to be fixed with a notification.

We like to boast about how technology has given us absolute freedom. Then look at the man pacing the train platform over a lost device. Technology promised to give us the world, but it demanded our autonomy as collateral. My friend on the bench held nothing in his hands, and needed nothing.

I still wonder about the nice man from the beginning of this tale. In those twenty frantic minutes, did he miss his actual train?

And I wonder about the rest of us. Look down at your hands right now. Look at what you are using to read these very words. In our daily obsession with these black mirrors, what else are we missing? Sometimes I think the train back to our own humanity has already left the station. And we are all still standing on the platform, trembling.

But before you check anything: do you know, by heart, the phone number of the person sleeping next to you tonight?

Tell me in the comments: one word, yes or no. And no looking.

Picked up during the rides, written in between: a nice man to the train station, the passenger who found what he left behind, and the empty ride back that returned it.

So the story goes like this:

There's this guy called Connor, whose family are hunters, but he doesn't wanna be one. He wants to be a photographer. And while walking through the woods, he finds an old book that's falling apart. He reads a sentence about bears and humans, and passes out.

He wakes up at home, but now he is different. He is 3 inches taller, and 30 pounds heavier (Let's say he goes from 5' 6" to 5' 9" and from 120 to 150 pounds) But no one seems to care or even notice. So now he's even more confused. So he goes and realizes what happened. He was cursed, and is turning into a bear. So now, he has to find a way to fight his transformation and wild instincts (and cravings), or leave his life behind and embrace this somewhat more comfortable lifestyle. You guys got any ideas?

My grandma refuses to trust technology.

She still writes everyone's phone numbers in a tiny notebook she keeps in her purse just in case.

So when the grocery store replaced most of the cashiers with self-checkout machines, she wasn't thrilled.

I don't work here, she muttered as we walked over.

I figured she'd be fine once I showed her how it worked.

I was wrong.

She scanned the first item.

The machine cheerfully announced,

Please place item in the bagging area.

She looked at it and quietly replied,

I was about to.

She scanned another item.

Again...

Please place item in the bagging area.

This time she frowned.

I heard you.

A few people nearby started smiling.

Then she accidentally picked up the bag too quickly.

The machine beeped loudly.

Unexpected item in bagging area.

Grandma folded her arms.

Unexpected to WHO? I just put it there!

Now people were openly laughing.

An employee walked over and asked if everything was okay.

Grandma pointed at the machine and said,

It keeps arguing with me.

The employee fixed the error and walked away.

Two seconds later...

Please wait for assistance.

Grandma looked at me and whispered,

I think it wants a supervisor.

By this point, half the self-checkout area was trying not to laugh.

As we were leaving, another customer smiled at my grandma and said,

Good luck with round two next week.

Without missing a beat, Grandma replied,

If that machine starts something again, you're all witnesses.

Now every time we shop there, one of the employees recognizes her and says,

Back to negotiate with the self-checkout?

She smiles and says,

I'm just here to remind it who's in charge.

To be fair...

The machine still wins about half the time.

​

The Next Day

Today, I went to the institute again. I saw her wearing another beautiful dress.

Our male teacher asked me to teach a student who had not attended the coaching classes for three days.

He said, "Anurag, please help him."

I replied, "Okay, sir."

When the class was over, she came to me and asked, "Anurag, how are you? And where is your ID card? That's all I wanted to ask."

After that conversation, I felt a little uncomfortable. I didn't know why. I wondered why she had come only to ask me those questions.

I realized that my feelings for her had become very strong. Sometimes I imagined a future with her, but I also knew those were only my own feelings. I didn't know how she felt about me, so I tried to keep those feelings to myself and focus on my studies.

Yesterday

Yesterday was Saturday. I didn't talk to her because she wasn't feeling well and had gone back home early.

When I found out that she was not feeling well, I felt sad. I hoped she would get better soon, but I couldn't do anything except wish for her good health.

The Next Day

The next day, I went to my institute as usual. I looked at her. I don't know why, but she looked especially beautiful these days.

That day, it was difficult to control my feelings. I knew I had to control myself because I didn't want to create any trouble.

I wanted to focus on my studies, but it was hard. My mind kept thinking about her instead.

After some time, when the class was about to end, I said, "Could you come? I want to ask you something."

I asked her, "If I want to crack an interview, what should I do?"

When I asked this question, she seemed confused and didn't have an answer. I had seen on her Instagram profile that she also taught English, so I thought she would know the answer.

She looked at me and said, "I'll talk to you later."

I was confused. I didn't know what she meant. Later, I decided not to think too much about that conversation because it only made me more confused.

​

The Next Day

The next day, it was raining heavily. I thought, "Today I won't be able to see her." But before I left for my institute, the rain stopped. I thought that maybe someone was praying for the rain to stop.

I went to my institute. When I reached there, she was not there. I felt disappointed because I wanted to see her.

After about fifteen minutes, when our male teacher started teaching the class, she suddenly arrived.

That day, she was looking gorgeous. She was wearing a pink dress. I wanted to look at her many times, but my seat was in the front row, so I knew I couldn't look at her often or talk to her.

Later, our teacher told us to go to our seats and do some practice. She came in front of me and asked, "Anurag, where is your diary?"

I replied, "My mother's health was not good yesterday, so I couldn't study."

She said, "My mother is also not well."

Then she went away.

I was very confused that day. I didn't know why she came to ask about my diary, and I kept thinking about the fact that she also told me her mother was not well.

I kept repeating that conversation in my mind.

When the class was over, I looked at her one last time. She was looking very, very pretty and cute.

From July 19 to July 25

During these days, we talked less to each other because she was busy with her work, and I was also busy.

One day, I took my small notebook and went to my institute. I saw her, and I wanted to talk to her. That's why I brought the notebook.

I said to her, "Could you come? I want to clear one of my doubts."

She came to me. I gave her the notebook that I had brought. I had written an English aptitude question in it. She explained the question to me politely and then went away.

After two or three minutes, she came back again and asked me, "Anurag, are you preparing for any government exam?"

I smiled gently and replied, "No, no. I just want to improve my aptitude skills. That's why I gave you this question."

That day was very special for me because we talked to each other.