There was a time I lived for this, the same work, the same routine, the same screen. Back then, that repetition was the purpose of my survival, the soul of my life. The pay wasn’t great either. But every morning, I woke up with a strange, raw hunger to pitch new marketing ideas, explore consumer behavior, test designs, fight for campaigns. Now? I wake up for rent. For deadlines. For hollow meetings where everyone smiles like their teeth are glued in place. What once felt like a calling now feels like a punishment I volunteered for. I sometimes wonder—did the work change, or did I?
It was 7 PM, and I was still in the office, finishing reports no one would remember by next week. My back ached and the coffee had gone cold. My manager had sent three 'friendly reminders' in the past hour. And yet, my calendar had 'Suhas’s birthday' marked in green, like some ritual I couldn’t skip.
I shut my laptop, tossed it in my bag, and stepped out into a sea of honking horns. The traffic was pure chaos. Engines coughed smoke, people yelled, bikes zigzagged like angry wasps. Someone was blasting music loud enough to drown my thoughts. After an hour, I had barely moved a kilometer.
By the time I reached the hotel, a five-star tower of glass and gold—I was already mentally halfway home. But I had to go in. Suhas had been my friend since college. I owed him a face.
I checked myself in the rear-view mirror. Shirt, fine. Hair, messy but passable. I entered the lobby, where chandeliers gleamed like stage lights. Everyone looked rich, effortless, dressed like they belonged. I did not. I smiled at strangers just to keep my nerves steady. A couple nearby laughed and looked in my direction—or through me. I adjusted my collar and walked toward the birthday crowd. Suhas stood in the center, wrapped in expensive fabric, surrounded by people who talked like they weren’t listening.
I handed him a gift—a watch I thought was elegant, but it suddenly looked painfully ordinary beside the branded boxes piling up. He thanked me politely, and we chatted. Slowly, the group formed a circle. The talk turned to vacations, luxury cars, and housewarming parties. Saketh, who’d just returned from a solo trip to Kullu Manali, turned to me and joked, “Bro, you’re living the life—full city boy, nightlife, luxurious life right?” I forced a smile. “Right.” Without elaborating on the dead life I was living.
That’s when the waiter spilled the drink on me.
It wasn’t dramatic. Just a quick slip, a splash, a moment of soaking humiliation. My new silk coat, ruined. I snapped—anger surged out before I could stop it. “What the hell are you doing?” I barked.
The room fell silent. My voice, so small all evening, had finally found volume but, at the worst moment. The waiter apologized. I saw fear in his eyes. My breathing slowed. Everyone stared. A woman in the corner watched me too carefully, as if curious what more I’d do. I mumbled an apology, more guilt than grace. I wiped my coat with napkins and excused myself with a fake phone call.
Outside, I climbed into my car, turned off my phone, and just sat in silence. Home wasn’t any better.
My mother had called twice that week—I ignored both. My father had texted just one line: “Don’t forget to transfer for bills.” We hadn’t spoken properly in months. They believed I had it all—a job, a car, a city life. They didn’t see the cracks. No one asked how I was.
That’s when it happened. As I waited at a red light on an empty road, a message popped up on my phone:
The Eternal Café — No clocks. No orders. No bills. Just peace. 24x7. People call it heaven.
No flashy graphics nor marketing gimmicks. Just that one line. I don’t know why I clicked, I never click random ads. But something inside me—tired, soft, fragile—responded. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was desperation.
I took the next left, following the map. The city began to fade. Horns quieted and roads narrowed. And the light... changed. It was golden. Not warm—sacred. The sun flickered in strange patterns through the trees. I stopped the car at the start of a quiet street. Parked. Got out.
The air smelled different. The wind moved slowly. A strange calmness stretched into the distance like a dream I hadn’t had in years. The road narrowed further as I walked, lined with old trees that didn’t sway, even in the breeze. I passed homes that looked abandoned—or maybe just paused. Everything was still. Too still.
At the far end stood a modest, dusky building with an old wooden sign that simply read The Eternal Café. No neon, no menu board, no staff greeting. Just quiet.
I pushed open the glass door. A tiny bell above chimed once and fell silent. The scent hit me first—warmth, cinnamon, faint roasted beans. Inside, time didn’t exist. No ticking clocks nor a chatter nor kitchen clatter. Just a few customers, each absorbed in something personal and oddly poetic.
An old woman sat near the window, eyes heavy with grief, holding a photograph. Not crying—just remembering.
In the far corner, a man in an expensive blazer sipped coffee slowly, eyes closed, face serene. His gold watch lay on the table beside him, stopped at 11:11.
Across the room, a young girl sat at a table for two, checking the door every five minutes.
No one looked at each other. No one spoke. And yet, the room felt full—like silence had shape.
I chose a small table near a bookshelf and sat down. Almost instantly, a cup of coffee arrived, placed gently in front of me by a man I hadn’t noticed. He didn’t ask what I wanted. He just gave me what I needed. The first sip was perfect. The bitterness, the heat, the comfort—exactly what I hadn’t known I craved. I sat there for hours. Or maybe minutes. Hard to tell. I realized I’d left my phone in the car—but I didn’t care. There was no clock on the wall. The sky outside never darkened. I didn’t question it. Not yet.
Day 2
I woke up in a small upstairs room they offered—no charge. The bed was soft. The sheets cold. Everything was still.
Downstairs, the café looked exactly the same.
Same woman by the window.
Same man with his coffee.
Same girl, still waiting.
I tried talking to them. A smile. A “hello.” Even waved. They weren’t rude, but their responses felt mechanical—too perfect, too practiced, not from the heart. I started to feel it too, the peace that slowly smothers. No one asked for money. No one asked for anything. I felt a strange desperation for my phone, though I tried to resist. Still, I liked it this way. And somehow, I was starting to forget what I wanted.
The day passed. But when I tried to recall it later—there was nothing. Just food and quiet. But is this really peace—or just boredom dressed in silence?
Day 3
At least when I had work, I had to wake up. Now, there was no reason to. I slept late. Skipped breakfast. When I finally woke up, new customers had arrived. Some people had left.
I missed my people—the ones I’d run from. I asked for a paper and started sketching out a project plan. No one was watching. But I wanted to work again.
That evening, the girl at the next table suddenly spoke. “You shouldn’t stay too long,” she said, still not looking at me. I froze. “Why?”.
She smiled gently. “The first time you taste peace, it feels like a cure. But stay too long, and you forget what you were trying to heal from.” That’s exactly what was happening to me.
Then I saw a sign above the bookshelf. It hadn’t been there before:
'Peace is not freedom. It is the absence of movement.'
And I understood. I had craved freedom, but lost movement. I didn’t want to be here anymore. I ran outside to my car. But somehow, I came back to the same place—right in front of the café.
I walked back in and went straight to the man who served the coffee. I don’t know if he was the owner. He smiled.
“I want to leave,” I said firmly.
He chuckled, then led me through a back door. Behind it was a large brown wall. On the right, an exit door. On the wall were names—many of them. In the middle, I found mine.
He saw me staring and said, “You think you chose this place? No. This place chose you. You wanted peace, and you were brought here. There’s nothing you can deny here. It’s heaven, isn’t it?” I said again, “No. I have to leave.”
“One way only,” he replied. “Leave, and you cannot return.”
I stood there, trembling. Here, there was warmth, silence, perfection. No pain, no pressure, no lies. But outside? Chaos, deadlines, judgment, traffic, drama.
But also, memory, movement, love. Maybe even meaning.
I thought of my mother’s tired voice. My father’s cold texts. The people I hadn’t said sorry to. The work that once made me feel alive.
I had to choose between a flawless, false paradise or a messy, real life.
I closed my eyes. And walked toward the exit door.
React
