The bedsheets are too big. Twenty centimeters too big, but it feels like more. Maybe twenty-five. Maybe a mile. Every night, he tucks the extra fabric under the mattress with precision, a temporary truce. Every morning, it unfurls itself like a victorious flag, reminding him that his bed used to be wider, that he used to share it with someone else. A 160cm bed in a 180cm past. He should get rid of the sheets. He won’t.
Instead, he shuffles to the kitchen, where the coffee machine blinks at him like an impatient lover. He presses the button, listens to it gurgle, watches the steam rise. The coffee dribbles out in a thin, hesitant stream, as if reconsidering its own existence. He takes a sip. It’s bitter, slightly burnt, but undeniably coffee. He adds milk. The milk is too sweet. He drinks it anyway.
Later, he takes his camera and heads out. Birds. He photographs birds. Or he tries. Every time he thinks he has the perfect shot—feathered elegance framed by golden morning light—the bird, as if sensing its own potential for a more poetic existence, flutters to an even better spot. He quickly refocuses, adjusts the lens, holds his breath. Before he can click, the bird flies away again, and he is left with an empty branch, a mocking echo of possibility.
This has been the pattern of his life. Almost there. Jobs he almost liked, relationships that almost worked, apartments that were almost perfect but had a radiator that hissed like a vengeful snake. His existence is a symphony of near misses, conducted by a universe with a taste for irony.
One afternoon, he finds himself in the park, watching an old man scatter breadcrumbs for pigeons. The old man moves with slow, deliberate patience. The birds do not flee. They trust him. He wonders what it would be like to be that sure of his place in the world.
He sits on a nearby bench, feeling the calm rhythm of the old man’s presence seep into him, a quiet energy he’s not used to but somehow recognizes. His body lets out a deep exhale. A movement catches his eye. A kingfisher, electric blue, perched on a branch over the pond. It stays. Just long enough. He steadies his hands, clicks the shutter.
This time, he gets the shot.
He looks at the image. It is sharp, vibrant, complete. No almost. Just there.
Later that evening, he strips the oversized sheets off his bed. He heads out, and by nightfall, he has sheets that fit.
The next morning he wakes to the softest touch, a quiet kiss from the sun. A single sunbeam slips through the gap in the curtains, landing gently on his face. The new sheets feel like a small victory, a silent reassurance that he’s exactly where he needs to be. There’s no rush, no sense of missing out, just a steady, grounded energy that stays with him as he gets out of bed.
In the kitchen, the coffee machine hums with the familiarity of routine. The coffee comes out smoothly this time, dark and rich. He doesn’t need to add milk. It’s perfect on its own—bold, sharp, exactly what he needs.
He grabs his camera and steps outside. The birds are there, but this time, they don’t escape. He doesn’t chase them, doesn’t wait for the perfect moment. He simply lifts the camera, finds the light, and clicks. The photos are effortless—sharp, beautiful, alive. Everything is exactly as it should be.
He wanders through the park, his steps light, the world surrounding him with ease. The trees stand tall, their branches stretching toward the sky, birds darting between them like fleeting thoughts. He feels connected to it all—the breeze, the sound of rustling leaves. It’s all flowing, all moving in sync. Things simply are, and they feel just right.
He’s not almost there. He’s here.
