Entre la vie

It all matters. That someone turns off the kettle before the shrill whistle breaks the quiet of dawn, like catching a dream before it slips away. They bend down to retrieve a crumpled newspaper page swept away by the wind, as if to save a forgotten story from being erased. A nod exchanged with the neighbor whose silence speaks louder than words, the unspoken bond between strangers who share only fleeting glances. The stray cat brushing against their legs, yearning for warmth or attention, goes unnoticed by most, but not by them. And in the café, a soft exchange over steaming cups—fingers brushing, names whispered, a fleeting smile that lingers long after the moment has passed.

Someone pauses, just long enough to hold the door for a stranger who will never know their name. It could be the hundredth time they’ve heard the same winding story from a friend, but they listen like it’s the first, filling the spaces between words with something deeper than conversation. In the middle of a bustling street, they pick up a single, forgotten glove from a bench, an unnoticed trace of someone’s passing. Water drips from the corner of a window where a neglected plant finally drinks its fill, because someone stopped to care. The sound of footsteps on a quiet morning as someone chooses to walk, not for the sake of slowness, but to notice, to really see, the city as it breathes and unfolds.

When the night fades and the party dies, someone stays behind to clear the last remnants—empty bottles, crumpled napkins, scattered memories. They’re the last to leave, unnoticed, but there, present, grounded in the spaces others rush to fill. In the corner of a dimly lit room, they sit beside the anxious, offering nothing but their steady company. The silence between them says more than words ever could. A glance shared across the room, soft and knowing, forgives where others might hold grudges. Rain pours outside, drenching them as they wait for a friend who may never arrive. But they wait, unwavering, because to them, the waiting is what matters.

These moments, these small gestures that seem to dissolve into the background of life, shape everything. A loaf of bread broken in half and shared without a thought, the exact change counted out, the choice to tell the truth when it would be easier to lie. Mistakes acknowledged quietly, without the need for applause or absolution. These things slip by unnoticed, but they are the moments that give life its texture. It’s always been this way. The things that make life worth living, the quiet acts that hold the world together, rarely get the recognition they deserve.

-Vie (16.Oct.2024, But still.. it all matters)