They kept calling. Texting. Sending inside jokes in group chats and reminders that the weekend was coming up fast. As usual, they wanted him to join them—drinks, noise, dancing, more noise. The same thing they did every Friday night. And often, he went along with it. It wasn’t like he hated it. Being with them was fun in its own way. They were wild, loud, never boring. He always had stories to tell afterward.
But not this week.
Something in him felt worn down—frayed, like a wire stripped too thin. The kind of tiredness that isn’t solved with sleep. Just the idea of laughter echoing off club walls or trying to shout over music made his skin itch. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about them. It wasn’t even that he didn’t want to be invited. He just didn’t have anything left to give.
He turned his phone to silent. No dramatic messages, no drawn-out explanations. Just a quiet decision. He made himself a drink, something simple, and let the evening settle around him. No voices. No obligations. No pretending.
The silence wasn’t empty. It was full of small comforts: the clink of ice in the glass, the soft hum of a playlist that didn’t demand anything from him, the steady beat of his own thoughts returning to themselves.
It wasn’t antisocial. It wasn’t rejection. It was recalibration.
Some people gather energy in crowds. Others lose it there. And for him, nights like this—alone, still, without pressure—were what brought him back to centre. It was how he remembered who he was when no one else was watching.
By the time the group texts rolled in the next morning, filled with blurry photos and hangover complaints, he was already feeling better. Grounded. Clear-headed. No guilt. No FOMO. Just the quiet confidence of someone who knows their own rhythm—and doesn’t need to explain it.
