That morning, the light came in a little late.
No—actually, the light didn't arrive late.
He opened his eyes late.
For the first few seconds after waking, he remembers nothing.
Those seconds are the calmest.
Then, slowly, reality returns.
The walls of the room, the crack in the ceiling,
the old bag resting beside the window—
everything is exactly the same.
Nothing has changed.
He sits on the bed in silence for a while.
This silence has become a habit.
Because if he starts talking in the morning,
the day becomes heavy.
There's no reason to go outside today.
No work. No call.
Still, he gets up.
Because lying down is no longer rest—
it's time spent blaming himself.
His mother is in the kitchen.
She gives him a faint smile.
Not the kind that says everything is fine—
the kind that says,
"Somehow, it's going on."
He says nothing.
She doesn't ask anything.
This unspoken understanding
has become the loudest conversation between them.
While eating, he doesn't really notice
what he's eating.
A different calculation runs inside his head.
He thinks—
what will I do today?
The question is simple.
The answer is terrifying.
He picks up his phone.
The internet is slow.
Old phone. Old battery.
He opens a few groups—
some people are looking for work,
some are offering it.
Everyone sounds confident.
Everyone seems to be in the right place.
He doesn't try to compare himself—
but it happens anyway.
He reads a few posts,
scrolls a little,
then puts the phone down.
Today, he won't message anyone—
he makes that decision himself.
Because today, he has nothing new to say.
He stands by the window.
People are moving outside.
Some carry bags, some carry urgency on their faces.
He's been watching this scene for a long time.
Still, he hasn't grown used to it.
Because even inside this crowd,
he feels separate.
He knows—
this separation isn't pride.
It's uncertainty.
The afternoon passes.
Time doesn't stop—
only his inner momentum slows.
He takes out his notebook.
The one he writes in.
It isn't new.
But it's the only place
where he doesn't have to lie to himself.
He doesn't start writing immediately.
First, he crosses out a few lines.
Then he writes again.
Today, he doesn't write anything big.
He writes one small line—
"Nothing happened today,
but I was here."
He reads the line and stops.
This is his truth now.
He knows
no one may ever read this.
Still, he writes.
Because if he doesn't,
he'll lose himself.
In the evening, the power goes out.
The room turns dark.
He sits on the chair,
hands folded into each other.
This darkness doesn't scare him.
Because he has seen a deeper place—
inside himself.
Suddenly, he hears his father's voice.
A very ordinary question—
"You're not going out today?"
He shakes his head.
There's no irritation in that movement.
Only reality.
His father says nothing more.
He walks away.
That walking away—
he notices it.
Because he knows—
when people say nothing,
it means they understand.
When night falls, he lies down again.
No achievements today either.
Still, he tells himself—
"Today, you didn't run."
That sentence feels big to him now.
He thinks,
not everyone succeeds in a single day.
Some people just stand still—
inside the storm.
That is who he is right now.
Before sleep comes, he knows—
tomorrow the same question will return:
"What will you do today?"
And he will get up again.
Because he hasn't
given up yet.