The next stop

At 8:17, nothing had happened yet.

The coffee was strong.

The apartment quiet.

That pale morning light lay across the floor,

as if the day were still assembling itself.

At twelve, I had to see a patient.

Four hours used to be enough

to build five catastrophes

and throw myself into each of them.

It doesn’t begin with a call.

Not with a message.

Not with an impact.

It begins with a crack.

A thought of my mother.

Then my aunt.

What are they feeling.

What did I miss.

My mind could turn a crumb into a case.

A glance into evidence.

A feeling into a verdict.

I was judge, defendant, and crime scene at once.

Thoughts didn’t arrive as possibilities.

They came in uniform.

What if.

What if you’re missing something.

What if it shifts right now.

There was no edge.

My inner life was a station without an exit.

Something was always pulling in

loud, urgent, doors open.

I got on.

Not because I knew where it went.

Because standing still wasn’t possible.

The late morning.

Light on the table.

The second sip of coffee, already cold.

That used to be the moment it started.

Faces.

Half-finished conversations.

A future already in ruins,

even though nothing had happened.

I sit on the couch.

The fabric under my hands.

The cup still warm.

A thought pulls in.

It doesn’t stop.

Not every thought stays.

A sound in the hallway.

I used to open the door.

Now I don’t.

The train still arrives.

Loud.

Insistent.

I stay where I am.

Not calm.

Not safe.

But I don’t get on.

Samu