Thursday. I Forgot Who I Ate Lunch With

Thursday. Neither rain nor bright sun. A day with nothing to report.

I am writing it down here, exactly as it happened, because days like this make up the largest part of my life.

6:40 AM

Second alarm. The first alarm I turned off without even remembering.

Cold kitchen. I turn on the electric kettle, stand waiting, holding onto the edge of the stone counter.

There is a soft sound the kettle makes right before boiling—a tiny bubbling at the bottom. I stand listening through to the end of that sound. Not intentionally. Just having nothing else to do.

Looking back later, that was the longest quiet pause in my whole day.

7:20 AM

Buying sticky rice at the street corner, the usual spot.

The vendor hands me the wrapped sticky rice and says: "You look less tired today than yesterday."

I smile, thank her, pay, and leave.

Walking twenty meters away, it strikes me as a bit strange. She doesn't really know me. Buying sticky rice every morning, we've never exchanged more than five sentences.

Yet she noticed I was tired.

I don't walk back to say anything more. I just keep walking, sticky rice still warm inside my pocket.

9:10 AM

Getting down to work. From here on, the day flows rapidly, and I am hardly present in it.

Meetings. Answering messages. Opening a file and closing it again because I remember I haven't asked someone a question.

There's a stretch—probably about two hours—where I remember nothing. It wasn't bad. There was just nothing to remember.

12:15 PM

Lunch.

And this is the part of the day I want to write down most, even though there's nothing special about it.

At night, sitting down to write, I couldn't remember who I ate lunch with.

Not eating alone—I'm certain someone sat across from me, because I remember talking. But who it was, and what we talked about, has completely evaporated from my head.

I sat dazed for a moment because of that.

Not feeling guilty. Just slightly amused, and a bit sad. A meal, a human being sitting in front of me for forty minutes, completely vanished.

2:30 PM

The worst moment of the day.

A message arrived, slightly reproachful in tone. Having read it, my face felt hot, I typed a reply in one breath, and clicked send right away.

Only after sending did I re-read it.

Not wrong. But colder than necessary.

I know the 'breathe before replying' exercise. I've written about it, practiced it. Today I didn't do it.

Writing it down because if I only record beautiful moments, this journal becomes something else—an achievement report, not a real day.

5:50 PM

Leaving the office. Not fully dark yet, just that brief grey-blue tint behind the buildings.

Waiting at a red light. Beside me, a motorcycle taxi driver rests both feet on the ground, hands on hips, looking up at the sky.

I tilt my head up and look too.

Nothing up there. A few clouds. But I stand watching for the entire duration of that red light, and when it turns green, I notice my shoulders are a bit lower than before.

8:10 PM

Washing dishes. Warm water. The last bowl is heavier than expected because of trapped water inside.

I notice that detail, and feel a small flicker of joy—washing dishes while knowing I am washing dishes is something I'm still practicing, and today I managed it once.

10:00 PM

Sitting down on the edge of the bed with my phone, opening notes, writing three lines.

Line one is easy: the sound of the kettle at 6:40 AM.

Line two is also easy: the phrase "you look less tired today than yesterday".

For line three, I sit for quite a while.

"Was there anything else today?" — I ask myself. And the first answer popping up is: no, today had nothing.

Then I remember the red light. The driver looking up at the sky, and me looking up too.

Line three: a stranger taught me how to take a 30-second rest at a red light.

Those three lines, none of them are grand stories. None of them will I ever tell anyone.

Yet all three almost slipped away.

That is what makes me sit a little longer. Not whether today was good or bad. But rather: if I hadn't sat down to write, all three moments would have vanished just like lunch—and I would remember this Thursday as an empty day.

It wasn't empty. I just passed through without seeing.

Before Turning Off the Light

I still haven't remembered who I ate lunch with.

When I see them tomorrow, I'll probably ask what they ate yesterday. See if anyone remembers.

And before sleeping, I lie still for a few minutes, scanning quickly from feet up to eyes—that ten-minute scan where today I only managed two.

Two minutes is fine too.

Tomorrow is Friday again.

This article was created with AI assistance.