Retrospective A

Nothing happened today. And maybe that's why I felt so much.

I woke up to the sound of the city already awake—horns, engines, hurried footsteps in the hallway of the building. I lay there longer than I should have, watching the morning light spill through the cracks in the blinds. That warm light that seems to invite the body to move, but offers no reason to do so. Just an indifferent warmth that enters and spreads, as if to say: the world goes on, with or without you.

I got up. I dragged myself to the kitchen. I made coffee. The smell filled the small apartment, but not enough to dispel the feeling of emptiness. The warm mug in my hands gave me some kind of presence. A simple gesture, repeated so many times, but which still seems to me like an attempt to fill silences — a choreography of emotional survival.

I sat on the edge of the bed with my coffee in my hand, letting time pass. The sound of my neighbor talking loudly on the phone came through the thin walls. Words were thrown into the air as if the world was always listening. I, in contrast, remained silent. I spoke little. And when I did speak, it wasn't enough. It never seemed to be. As if my sentences were always late, as if I were speaking from a place where the language had not yet been fully learned.

I opened the computer. No new messages. No emails that mattered. No notifications other than the usual ones — promotions, reminders, automatic updates. Everything spinning as if I were present, but clearly absent from the radar. It was like watching a party from outside the window, while everyone toasts names that aren't mine.

I felt a vague tightness. It wasn't sadness, exactly. It was a slight discomfort, like someone realizing they are in a strange place, even without knowing where they should be. An internal displacement, as if my feet weren't quite touching the ground. As if I were floating inches from reality, watching it all happen behind a fogged-up glass.

I decided to go out. An attempt to breathe. Headphones in, hands in pockets, hood pulled up until it almost covered my eyes. The sky was gray, but there was no threat of rain. The streets were full, as always, of people going somewhere, doing something, belonging to something. I moved among them like a shadow—no one saw me. And if they did, they probably wouldn't notice anything. My face bears no marks. My clothes don't scream. I've learned to be invisible. Or maybe I always have been.

I walked past a crowded café. Loud laughter, lively conversation, someone taking a selfie. And for a second, I felt envious. Not of the people, but of the ease with which they seemed to exist. As if life fit them perfectly, as if they inhabited a script in which they knew their lines. I, on the other hand, always felt like I had walked into the wrong theater. And even when I tried to improvise, I was still off-key.

I sat on a bench in the square. I watched the trees sway slowly in the wind, the birds pecking the ground for crumbs, a boy running with the thoughtless joy of someone who has not yet learned to doubt the world. There was something sacred in that carefreeness. And there I was, in the middle of it all, trying to convince myself that I was part of the scenery.

I don't. I never have. The world has never been my place. The rules, the rhythms, the rituals — everything has always seemed made for others. My days go by like a kind of constant translation: I try to transform thoughts into sentences, desires into actions, presence into belonging. But the translation is never perfect. Something is always lost along the way.

There are days when it weighs less. When silence is good, when solitude is company. When I can pretend to be at peace. But today, it came thicker. Deeper. A silence that doesn't welcome — it just echoes. A feeling that says: you don't belong here. And the worst part is that I believe it.

I went home with my head down. I bought something at the supermarket just to justify my departure. A pack of cookies, a soda. I was greeted by a nice lady who asked if I had a loyalty card. I smiled and shook my head. She smiled back, as if she believed that this small gesture is enough to create a connection. And maybe it is, for some.

At home, I put the bag on the kitchen floor, took off my shoes, and stared at my own reflection in the microwave glass. I saw someone tired. But not from physical effort. A tiredness of existing. Of always being between, never inside. Of trying to translate into a language that the world insists on not speaking. A type of exhaustion that cannot be cured with rest — because effort is existential.

I threw myself on the couch. I stood there. The ceiling is the same as always. The furniture too. The feeling... it varies. But deep down, it's always a variation of the same thing: not belonging. The house is mine, but the world never was. And maybe it never will be.

I know how to live alone. I know how to entertain myself. I know how to survive. I learned to make my hands a fortress and my thoughts a home. But knowing is not the same as wanting. And sometimes, just sometimes, I wish I didn't have to be so good at it. I wanted to be seen without having to shout. I wanted to be understood without undressing.

I thought about texting someone. But what would I say? "Hi, I feel like a stranger in the world"? "Tell me I'm not the only one who feels like life is a bad fit for them"? The fear of a response — or lack thereof — always outweighs the desire to speak.

I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath. The world was still out there, spinning with its rush and its commitments. And I... I was still here, spinning too, but without an axis. A satellite without a planet. A presence that just circulates. I am not sad. Nor happy. Nor anything that fits well in just one word.

Sometimes all I wanted was a real break. A place where no one expected anything. Not for me to smile. Not for me to explain. Not for me to understand. A place where silence didn't mean absence, but welcome. Where solitude was a home, not an exile.

Just exist. In peace. Effortless. Just that. But that sometimes seems like asking too much. And I continue. Because I don't know how to do anything else.