A Day in the Life

A musical experience.

Jun 09, 2025

📜 HOW TO READ THIS SCROLL:

This isn’t a short story.
This isn’t a playlist.
This is a tone experiment — built to be read alongside the songs that carry it.

You will:

▶️ Press play on the linked track at the top of each section
🌀 Scroll slowly — let the music shape your pacing
⏭️ Switch songs when cued — the tone will shift, not the plot
🔁 Let the loop reveal itself

This isn’t about resolution.
This is about recognition.

You’ve lived this day — or something like it.
Let’s see if it holds.

If you’re hearing this right now, comment 🎵 or like this post.

Just curious who’s running tone with me.

📌 Not everyone scrolls to sound.

If syncing the music feels distracting — don’t force it.
If you want to read first and listen later, do that.
If you skip the songs entirely, the story still works.
The scroll holds either way.

Scroll slow. Let the ache find you by the end.

▶️ [Play “For No One” – The Beatles]

Opened my eyes. Things were still bleary. Didn’t know what I was expecting — same old ceiling.

That hairline crack above the bed still looks like a heart if you stare long enough.
She used to say that. I never saw it until after she left.

Phone buzzed.
Already knew it wouldn’t be her.
Still checked. Still hoped. Still nothing.

Sat up slow. Not tired — just… resistant. It felt like the kind of day where everything would take a little more effort than it should. No reason. Just the weight of again.

Didn’t bother looking for the socks — they weren’t where I left them anyway.
She used to leave mine by the door when she cleaned.
That was her rhythm. I didn’t learn it.

[Kitchen.]
Same mug. Rinsed it out.
Still a faint coffee ring at the bottom — like a stain that forgot it wasn’t wanted.

The mug’s from a set.
Hers chipped on the handle. I glued it.
She never used it again.

Coffee smells like waiting.
I hold the cup like it means something.

[Mirror in the bathroom]

Looks fine. So do I.
Whatever that means.

Brush my teeth with automatic guilt.
That’s new.

Get dressed in something black. She used to say I looked good in color, but I never saw it. The shirt’s probably fine.
Doesn’t matter.

Keys. Wallet. Phone.
Door lock clicks shut like a sigh.

I say:

“Maybe today.”

It means nothing.
But I still say it.

Three blocks to the corner store. The sky is already too bright.
The morning air carried that early trash-day smell.

Stopped for juice.
Some kind of citrus — didn’t matter which.

Buy juice. Citrus — whatever’s cold.
She liked grapefruit. I didn’t.
Now I get it out of habit.

Guy in front of me buys scratch tickets.
A lot.
Scratches them one by one while I just wait.

He loses.
I nod at the back of his head like I get it.
We’re both gambling on things that don’t talk back.

Outside, a bus rolled past with an ad for her favorite movie.
The old one. The dumb romantic one with the slow song and the cliché ending.
She made me watch it three times.

Didn’t stop walking, but something tugged —
under the ribs, just enough to notice.

And then, quieter than a whisper:

“Does she still love me?”

Not expecting an answer.
Not even sure I want one.

Silence isn’t always absence.
Sometimes it’s mercy.

▶️ [Play “A Day in the Life” – The Beatles]

Bus is nearly empty.
I sit in the same spot I always do — second row, window seat, back against the divider.
It’s too early for noise but the brakes still scream like the city’s trying to warn itself.

She used to text me around this time.
Never long. Just little things —

“made it in”
“coffee’s bad”
“miss your dumb voice.”

Now it’s just the sound of tires and someone coughing near the front.

The bus smells like rubber and forgotten umbrellas.
I rest my head against the window, feel the cold glass press back.

We pass her stop, it used to be three before mine.
Every time I think I won’t look up when we hit it —
but I do. It’s not hope. It’s rhythm. Like blinking.

She’s not there. Of course she’s not there.
But that doesn’t stop my chest from doing that thing —
that stupid, private flutter that thinks she might be.

The city drags by like it’s bored of itself. I count buildings I’ve never been inside. Count people I’ve never said anything to. Count songs I’d skip if I had headphones in.

No one talks.
We all breathe in sequence.
Even the driver looks like he’s just surviving the shift.

Doors open. I’m up, walk through the parking lot that is impossibly long today.
Inside the building by 9:07.
Forgot my badge.
Tell the front desk it’s in my other coat.
They pretend to believe me.
I pretend I care.

The office smells like printer toner and old fast food.
Everyone here talks like they’re on a conference call even when they’re not.

I nod at someone I kind of know. They nod back like we’ve done this before. Maybe we have. I can’t remember.

She hated this building.
Said it drained my skin color.
Said I looked like a before photo when I came home.

Laptop on. Slack already chiming.
Three “quick questions.”

Two deadlines I forgot agreeing to.
One meeting that started eight minutes ago.

I open a doc.
Stare at it like it owes me something.

I try to care.
I really do.

Lunchtime. Or something like it.
I walk to the deli. Not because I’m hungry — because sunlight still counts as medicine.

The deli’s loud. Too many smells.
I stare at the egg salad like it’s a trap.

She used to get tuna. I never liked it.
Now I miss the smell.

I grab a sandwich I won’t finish and eat it standing in the parking lot like that makes it less lonely.

Back at my desk. Someone asks how I’m doing.
I smile. Nod. Say “not bad.”

I don’t think they’re listening anyway.

She used to call me out when I said that.
Said “not bad” is just grief in costume.

Midafternoon.
Inbox is full.
Brain is not.
I send a draft I barely read.
Someone says “good start.”
That’s corporate for “this isn’t it.”

By 3:40, I’m staring at her contact again.
Not messaging. Just... staring.
Like the empty circle might do something.
It doesn’t.

I Google her name.
Not because I want to know —
just to make sure she still exists.

She does.

Of course she does.

The music is fading now.
I’m on the bus again. Same spot, opposite direction.

Feel heavier than this morning.
Like I absorbed too much static from people pretending to function.

Look at my hands.
Still here.

Look out the window.
Still gone.

I still have to eat.

Forgot about that.
Fridge is empty.
No real food. No her. No anything.

I’ll stop at the store.
Not because I want to.
Because it’s what I used to do.

Because she liked when I cooked.

⏹️ Stop track at 4:28
The orchestral noise is just for show.
What comes next is louder than music.

▶️ [Play “Helter Skelter” – The Beatles]

Didn’t plan on getting off here.
Missed my stop on purpose, maybe.
The grocery store’s on this block, and the fridge at home is just a hollow with a light inside.

Didn’t know I was hungry until I remembered how empty everything else felt.

She used to handle groceries.
Said I always picked meals like I was preparing for exile —
all starch and nothing green.

Doors hiss open.
Light hits before sound.
Fluorescent and mean.

Holiday weekend.
Of course it’s packed.
Of course I forgot.
Of course I’m not invited to anything.

The cart doesn’t roll right. One wheel keeps spinning like it’s fighting the floor.
Fits the theme.

Aisles already blocked. Someone debating marinara like it’s a moral decision.
Another kid crying by the berries like grief is transferable by proximity.

The song starts in my head.
Helter Skelter.
Louder than the store.
Louder than me.

“When I get to the bottom…”
I already know the rest.

Try to go down Cereal. No luck.
Try Soup. Jammed up.
I slide past them sideways, muttering apologies.
No one moves. No one hears.
Or they do, and they’ve just stopped caring.

She used to hate this store.
Said it was lit like a police station.
Said it made her feel like she was failing at adulthood.

I didn’t get it then.
I do now.

Pasta aisle.
Two people arguing over box sizes.
I grab whatever’s closest.
Hope it cooks in less than ten minutes.
I don’t want to stand that long tonight.

Sauce shelf wiped clean.
I scan labels like I’m going to be able to taste any of them.
Pick the one with the least ingredients.
Feels like a compromise I didn’t consent to.

Bread’s gone.
Nothing but off-brand white fluff.
Tastes like giving up.
Take it anyway.

Used to get sourdough for her.
She liked it toasted with real butter and an egg.
I’d bring it to her in bed.
Now I toast it too long and eat standing by the sink.

I check my phone.
Still nothing.
No messages. No missed calls.
I open her thread.
It’s still pinned.
I don’t know how to unpin it.

Frozen section’s a mess.
Water pooling in the corners.
I slip just enough to feel stupid.
Guy next to me sees. Doesn’t say anything.

I smile like that’s funny.
It isn’t.

I forget what I came for.
Retrace my steps.
Still don’t find it.
I’ll eat around it. Like I always do.

She’d be texting me by now:
“You got the bread, right?”
Or, “Don’t forget the green stuff.”
I used to think she meant salad.

Checkout is hell.

Line stretches through Snacks into Cleaning.
I wait behind an older woman pulling coins out like she’s buying time.
Cashier’s half-dead behind the eyes.
He asks, “Find everything okay?”
I say, “Sure.”

I didn’t.
But no one wants the truth here.

Swipe my card.
Beep.
Nothing.

Try again.
Beep.
Declined.

Check my balance.
Fine.

Try again.
Declined again.

I glance behind me.
Guy in line does the tight exhale people save for plane delays.

“It’s on my end,” I say.
No one believes it.

One more swipe.
It goes through.

No relief.
Just passage.

Bag everything.
Plastic handles cut into my hand.
Fingers numb.
I carry it like it owes me an apology.

Walk out through the automatic doors like I’m escaping something.
Couldn’t tell you what.

Home is dark.
Kitchen smells like nothing.

Put the bags down.
One rolls off the counter.
Hits the floor.
I let it.

Open the fridge.
Light comes on like it’s trying to help.
It can’t.

I don’t want to cook.
I don’t want to eat.

But I don’t want to be the kind of person who stops trying.

▶️ [Play “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” – The Beatles]

The bag’s still on the counter.
Handles stretched thin. One loop barely holding.
That corner’s torn — not from the walk, just from existing.
It’s the kind of damage that accumulates slowly. Like everything else.

I don’t touch it right away.
Just stand there, staring at it like it might open itself.

Then I start unpacking. Not because I’m hungry —
I’m not even sure I am — but because it’s something to do with my hands that doesn’t involve picking up my phone again.

I take things out one at a time.
Like I’m laying out puzzle pieces, even though the picture’s already faded.

The pasta box is bent — top corner crushed inward like it got stepped on in transit.
It reminds me of the time we tried to carry groceries up the stairs without bags, and the rigatoni exploded down two flights. She laughed for ten minutes. I wanted to be mad, but her laugh was louder than the mess.

Bread’s already going soft, the edges spongy.
It’s the kind you only buy when you stop caring about texture.

The sauce jar hits the counter with a click louder than it should’ve been.
I flinch.

Even small sounds feel sharp in this silence.

I line everything up across the counter. Like I’m about to film a cooking show I’ll never air. Like if I place it all just right, it’ll mean something.

It doesn’t.

But she used to say I had a way of making dinner feel like a ritual. Like I wasn’t just feeding us — I was building a pause in the chaos. Back then, I thought she was just being nice. Now I realize she might’ve meant it.

I fill the pot with water and watch the line rise slowly. There’s something grounding about the weight of it — the honesty of volume.

Burner ticks.
Three beats.
Then a catch.

That familiar whoosh of blue flame — too fast, too bright.
I blink and look away like it was a confrontation.

While the pot starts to warm, I sit.

Stool by the corner, the one that always wobbles slightly. Elbows resting on knees. Body shaped like waiting.

I’m not exhausted. Not wired either. I think I’m just… done with the day in the way you can be done with rain.

You don’t fight it. You just stop trying to stay dry.

She used to hum during this part. Not a song. Just something breathy and soft —
a background sound that let me know she was thinking, not gone.

It wasn’t even melodic.
Just a presence; a pulse in the kitchen.
Now it’s gone.
And the air feels like it’s trying not to disturb anything.

I get up and chop what little I remembered to buy.
The tomato’s too ripe.
The knife is too dull.
It doesn’t slice so much as slide.

I try again.
Lean in.
More pressure, not anger.
Just... need.

It splits. Not clean. But it breaks.
That feels appropriate.

I reach for seasoning without thinking and grab the wrong one.
The lid’s crusted from last time.

When was last time?

I twist it anyway. Dust falls. It smells too strong; bitter.
Like something you’d sprinkle on denial.

I don’t fix it. I Wouldn’t even know how.
She would’ve noticed. She always did.

She once told me my cooking had “heart, not skill.” I would smile back.
Now it sounds like the kind of thing you say when you don’t want to critique the person holding the knife.

The fridge hums behind me.
Steady. Comforting. Mechanical.

There’s still a note stuck to it —
her handwriting, soft loops, ink barely there.

Grocery list.
The old kind.
Written on that yellow notepad we both hated but kept using.

I told myself I’d take it down once I stopped needing it.
But need is strange.
Sometimes it feels like memory.
Sometimes it feels like defiance.

Mostly, I just pretend I don’t see it.
But I always feel it.

Like furniture you keep bumping into but never move.

Water’s boiling now.
Bubbling like it has something to say.
I drop the pasta in.
It dances.
Then sinks.
No resistance.

I stir.
Not because it needs it — because I do.

She once said I stir like I’m hiding something.
I never asked what.
She never told me.

Pan spits.

Oil pops against the back of my hand.
Tiny shock.
I don’t flinch this time — but it gets me thinking:

How many little burns have I collected this year?
Not the kind you treat.
The kind you just carry.

And then… I laugh.

Just a short, sharp bark.
Not joy.
More like relief escaping by accident.

It startles even me.
I’m still holding the spoon when it happens.
Still standing over heat, smiling like someone who just got caught telling the truth.

When it’s done, I plate it.
Spoon curved toward the inside of the bowl.
Wipe the rim with a folded paper towel.
She used to do that.
Said it made the meal look like a decision, not an accident.

I’ve done it ever since.
Even when I eat alone.
Even when the food isn’t good.
Even when it’s just me.

Especially when it’s just me.

I sit.
Look at it.
Let it steam.

It looks real.
Smells right.
It could fool someone from across the table.

But I just stare at it.
Not trying to eat — just trying to decide if this is nourishment or nostalgia.
If this is me surviving the day, or proving I’m still here.

And that line —
the one from this morning —
slips back in.

Does she still love me?
Does she even think of me?

Not really questions anymore.
Not even a wound.
Just… a weather pattern.
Something I carry like humidity.

Maybe it’s not about love.
Maybe it never was.
Maybe it’s just about how long a presence can echo through empty rooms.

The music’s still playing.
I’m not listening to the notes anymore.
Just the weight of it.

I don’t wait for the solo.
I don’t let it swell.
I press pause before it tells me anything I didn’t ask.

Not because I’m done.

But because sometimes even music asks too much.

▶️ [Play “I’m Only Sleeping” – The Beatles]

I lie down without really deciding to. Not as a choice — more like gravity made the call, and I didn’t resist.
The couch gave just a little beneath me, and I let it.
I followed the motion like someone pulled forward by a current they stopped questioning.

I didn’t take off my socks.
Didn’t fold the blanket at the edge of the cushion.
Didn’t even check if the lights were off in the other room.
None of it felt urgent.
None of it felt real enough to matter.

I’m not tired, exactly.
Not in the way that sleep answers.
But I also don’t have enough left in me to argue with the stillness.
There’s a kind of exhaustion that doesn’t ask for permission — it just settles.

So I sink.
Not into dreams.
Not into comfort.
Just into something like resignation.
Soft, slow, inevitable.

The song starts playing.
That one.
Hers.

She used to call it “dream logic” —
said it made her heartbeat slow down,
like her thoughts were trying to catch up with something they couldn’t name.
She said it was music for folding inside yourself.

I used to laugh at that.
Used to say she was being dramatic.
Now it feels like scripture.
Now I understand what she meant — not because I believe in it,
but because I live in it.

My body doesn’t ache the way it used to.
No sharp pain.
Just this steady pressure,
like I’ve been carrying too many unspoken things for too long.
Now that I’ve set them down — finally — they’re not gone.
They’re just sitting beside me,
resting their elbows on my chest,
close enough to feel the weight,
too quiet to ask to leave.

I stare at the ceiling.
Not looking for anything — just giving my eyes a job.
A soft place to land.
The same ceiling as every night.
Same heart shaped crack above the fan.
Same uneven ripple in the corner near the window.

I used to say it looked like a coastline.
She said it looked like lungs.
I didn’t get it then.

But after she left, I started to see it —
the slow rise and fall.
The way shadows stretched across it like breath.
The way a room can mimic life even after it's been emptied.

My phone lights up on the table.
Just the screen waking itself.
No message. No alert.
Just… glowing.
Just reminding me that I’m still connected to something I don’t want to touch.

I let it fade back to black.
I don’t need a message tonight.
Not even from her.
Especially not from her.
Because if it came now, it would mean she remembered.
And if it didn’t — it would mean she didn’t.

And both hurt in their own way.

I roll onto my side.
The cushion’s still faintly warm from earlier —
from sitting there after dinner, from trying to feel like I’d survived the day.

In that moment —
the quiet breath between two thoughts —
I almost let go.
I almost melted.

But I didn’t.

Because something in me always stays awake.
Some small, coiled part refuses to release,
refuses to believe the day is done.
It’s the part that still wants an answer.
Still thinks one might come.

And it whispers.
Soft.
Insistent.
Familiar.