It was Sunday evening. Clarke was smoothing cement on the front steps. The wind kicked up old red paint chips. They spun and fell. The sun was out but the air still had bite. Spring was here, or close to it, but March doesn’t let go easy.
People passed by. Some wore skirts. Some wore coats. They didn’t acknowledge each other—just passed like ghosts from different seasons.
The clocks had gone forward. It made the evenings longer. I didn’t like it. You shouldn’t go to bed with the sun still up. The light dragged on. It made everything feel stretched and thin.
Another summer was coming. Another season I’d watch through digital glass. I’d see other people in places I couldn’t go. Sunburned and smiling, holding glasses of wine. Eating food dressed in olive oil and smugness. I didn’t pretend not to care. I cared. It was envy.
It’s been five years since I lived like that. I can barely remember it. The images are soft now. Washed out. I looked at the sea but it didn’t look back.
Everyone’s slipping in their own way. Even my parents. They used to seem solid. Lately they talk like something is missing but can’t name what. Maybe that’s how it is now. You carry the weight without knowing what it is. Some days it just sits there.
I’m not angry at the world. It’s broken in the usual ways. But I can live with that. I like order. Clean edges. Places that run the way they should. I’ve taken comfort in things like that.
But the thing pressing in isn’t out there. It’s older. Quieter. Like a sound you can’t hear but feel in your gut. I used to think freedom would save me. I had money. Time. Some luck. It didn’t matter. I’m still here. Watching the light go and not knowing what to do with it.
Clarke seemed fine. Older than me. Tanned. Unbothered. He lived in our shit hole of a basement and fixed things and went to the sauna. We didn’t talk much. Some nights you can’t carry anyone else. Tonight was like that.
I don’t think I’m waiting anymore. Not for change. Not for relief. I just keep going so it doesn’t look like I’ve stopped. You nod. You reply. You breathe. But something’s wearing down inside. Quietly. Like Clarke smoothing over a crack no one wants to see. It’ll dry. People will walk over it. But I’ll know it’s there. I always know.