What I Didn't Carry

the fluorescent lights hum above everything,

a thin, constant sound

like the place is breathing for us.

I move slowly down the aisle—

not browsing

not searching

just letting my body follow the path

it's learned to take.

my fingers touch the edge of a shelf.

cold metal.

real.

it doesn't react to me,

and i don't ask it to.

people pass with lists in their heads.

dinner plans.

small urgencies.

their carts already know where they're going.

mine drifts.

—

I stop in front of fruit,

rows of color arranged to look alive.

I pick one up,

weigh it in my hand,

put it back in the exact same place

like i was never there.

there's a moment—

small, quiet—

where i realize no one would notice

if i left the store without buying anything,

or if i stayed standing here

until closing.

that thought doesn't scare me.

it settles.

—

at the checkout,

the cashier doesn't look up.

the machine accepts my card without question.

everything works

without needing my attention.

the receipt prints.

longer than necessary.

I fold it carefully,

as if order still matters.

outside, the air feels less managed.

cooler.

unimpressed.

I stand with the bag hanging from my wrist

and understand something plainly:

I wasn't empty because i was alone—

I was empty because i showed up

to a place built for wanting

and brought none with me

I walk home anyway.