Most people don't crash and burn.
No car accidents, no explosions, no dramatic breakdowns in the middle of a grocery store.
Most people just live. They wake up, go to work, pay bills, and scroll through their phones. Then they do it all over again.
Gradually, the days start to blend together. Not good, not bad. Just there.
Some nights, you lie in bed and feel it, the quiet weight of being normal. It weighs on you like gravity, slow and constant, reminding you that nothing will change unless you make it happen or something forces it to.
That thought lingered when my alarm went off at 6:45 a.m. I hit snooze. Once. Twice. Maybe three times, just long enough to feel in control before finally getting out of bed.
The ceiling above me was cracked, just like it had been for years. It didn't bother me as much as it reminded me that some things never change. The radiator hummed like it had been complaining about heating bills since the building was built. I made toast and coffee. Burnt toast, lukewarm coffee. Just a standard survival breakfast.
I took a sip of the coffee. It was terrible. I grimaced, rolled my eyes, and still drank it. Part of me thought, You paid for this, so suffer. Another part just wanted it to be over so I could start the day.
The train was a parade of tired faces. Earbuds in, eyes glued to screens, nodding like tiny zombies. A guy across from me snored as if he auditioned for a sleep symphony. A woman muttered angrily at her phone, typing so fast it looked like she wanted to win a medal. And me? I stared out the window, pretending to be part of the scenery, like a background character no one noticed.
Work was just work. Meetings that could have been emails, emails that could have been ignored, coworkers asking about my weekend. "Fine," I said. Not good, not bad, just fine. My back ached by lunchtime, my brain buzzed by mid-afternoon, and by the time I left, I felt like I had been running in place all day.
As I crossed the street, I watched others pass by. Their lives seemed so purposeful-sharp suits, briefcases, confident strides. Me? I walked like a guy slowly turned into an extra in someone else's story.
At home, I kicked off my shoes and dropped my keys into the bowl by the door. Silence filled the space. It was heavy in a way different from the office. I sat on the couch and stared at the ceiling. That crack looked angrier, like it was judging me for still being here, still alive, still doing nothing special.
I thought about what everyone says: Be grateful for what you have. And I am. I really am. A roof over my head, a bed, coffee, toast, and a job that pays the bills. But some nights, lying here, it feels like what I have isn't enough. Like normal itself is heavy.
The evening blurred by. Dishes, laundry, scrolling my phone, staring at the walls. I didn't call anyone. No one would call me. My life wasn't exciting, dangerous, or tragic. It was just normal. And for some reason, normal felt heavy tonight.
Dinner was slightly burnt. I ate in silence, thinking about people who had it worse and those who had it better. I was somewhere in the middle, holding onto enough comfort to get through tomorrow.
Later, on the windowsill, I watched the city lights. People rushed by, cars honked, lives moved forward while I remained paused.
I yawned—a big, deep yawn carrying the weight of the day, maybe the week. I thought about going to bed early, but I knew I wouldn't sleep well. Sleep didn't care about comfort or rest; it focused on unfinished thoughts, mistakes, and missed chances.
Finally, I crawled into bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the radiator hum and the faint buzz of the city. I thought about tomorrow: alarm at 6:45, toast, coffee, train, work, repeat.
Normal. Safe. Boring.
And yet somehow heavy.