It wasn’t rebellion. It wasn’t courage. It was exhaustion so pure it felt like silence after a gunshot.
Jean had spent forty-seven years trying to care. He cared about deadlines, about his mother’s opinion, about the chipped paint on his front door. He cared so much that his shoulders were permanently curved inward, as if bracing for a falling sky.
Jean sat on the bathroom floor. He said the words aloud for the first time: “Je m’en fous.”
At the park bench, an old man sat down beside him. “Beautiful day,” the man said.
It wasn’t rebellion. It wasn’t courage. It was exhaustion so pure it felt like silence after a gunshot.
Jean had spent forty-seven years trying to care. He cared about deadlines, about his mother’s opinion, about the chipped paint on his front door. He cared so much that his shoulders were permanently curved inward, as if bracing for a falling sky.
Jean sat on the bathroom floor. He said the words aloud for the first time: “Je m’en fous.”
At the park bench, an old man sat down beside him. “Beautiful day,” the man said.
