Floor Staring

Have you ever collapsed in the middle of your own life?

Not in some dramatic, cinematic way—no. I mean silently. Quietly. So softly that no one even notices.

It starts like this:

You’re sitting on the edge of your bed, and you’re staring at your feet. You were going to put your shoes on, maybe go outside. You had every intention. But then the weight hit you.

It didn’t feel like sadness, exactly. It felt like pressure. Like something invisible sitting on your chest, grinding you into the mattress, whispering, “No one cares.”

You try to stand, but your knees buckle—not because they’re weak, but because you are. Not in a moral sense. In a mechanical one. You’re a broken machine. Rusted in your joints. Out of battery.

You slide down to the floor.

Cold wood presses into your skin, and it feels... honest. That’s the word for it. Honest. The floor doesn’t lie. It’s just there. Solid. Hard. You place your cheek against it and close your eyes.

You lie there for minutes. Hours. You’re not even sure. Time becomes abstract.

It’s not the kind of pain people write about. It’s not loud. It doesn’t shout or scream. It hums. A quiet hum behind your eyes, like static in an old TV. It wraps around your limbs and weighs you down.

People text. You don’t answer. Someone knocks once. You don’t move. Somewhere in your mind, you know you should. You should get up. You should care. You should want to eat or shower or cry or talk.

But you don’t. You just lie there. Face to the floor. Breathing shallowly.

Eventually your arm falls asleep. Then your hip. Pins and needles crawl like ants beneath your skin, but you still don’t move. Maybe if you stay here long enough, the pain will think you’re dead and leave.

You drift in and out of consciousness. You dream, but the dreams are dull—gray rooms, endless hallways, forgotten names. Sometimes you think you hear voices, like echoes of who you used to be.

Then comes the moment. The small one. The invisible shift.

A tear leaks out of your eye and hits the floor.

And then, another.

You don’t sob. You don’t wail. You just cry—quietly, pitifully. Like a faucet with a slow drip. One drop at a time. Not enough to flood, but enough to drown.

You whisper something. Maybe it’s “help.” Maybe it’s just air.

No one hears you.

But you hear you.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s the first sound of life.

Eventually, you sit up. Not because you want to, but because your body demands it. The pain in your hip becomes unbearable. So you shift, groaning, cursing your own weight. You lean back against the bedframe and stare across the room.

The light has changed.

How long has it been?

You pull your knees to your chest. Your throat is raw, and your limbs feel like they belong to someone else. But you’re upright. Barely.

You glance at your phone. Missed calls. A message from your sister. Your foreman. A reminder about a dentist appointment you forgot to cancel.

You don’t reply.

But you read them. And that’s something.

That’s something.

You stay on the floor for a while longer. But this time, you’re not stuck. You’re resting.

Eventually, you stand. You’re shaky. Unstable. But upright.

You walk to the sink. Splash cold water on your face. Avoid the mirror.

You can’t look at yourself yet. Maybe tomorrow.

You’ll try again tomorrow.

But for today, standing is enough.