A Good Day
"What if today was your last day?"
The notification glowed softly in the dark room. The man stared at his phone, at the daily reflection he'd ignored for months. Today, it felt different. Today, it felt like a lifetime's reflection.
4:55.
Five minutes before his alarm, as always. "The early bird gets the worm" – a motto inherited from his father, justifying these ungodly 5 am awakenings.
"Thank you Lord for the comfort of my bed, safety of my home, and breath in my lungs." The prayer felt different today, each word savored like the last bite of a favorite meal.
In the corner, his backpack slouched against the wall, a faithful companion through years of classes. He'd never have to go to class again. The thought brought an unexpected smile – not of relief, but of fondness.
The kettle had finished its morning song. Grinding beans from Ethiopia, he hummed the Moonlight Sonata, fingers moving in muscle memory along invisible violin strings. Quitting violin was his greatest regret, but the music never really left him.
Sssst. Steam rose from the pour-over, dancing in the pre-dawn light. His wooden mug – a birthday gift from his mother, worn smooth by countless mornings – fit his hand like an old friend's embrace. Some mornings he swore he could feel her love in its warmth.
Morning light painted his walls gold as he cracked open 'The Fall'. The book's spine, creased and familiar, opened to his favorite passages. What was it about today that made everything feel like a gentle goodbye?
Whatever came next, he wouldn't end up like Jean-Baptiste Clamence. Camus' character, desperately seeking acceptance until his last breath, seemed especially tragic today. There was peace in acceptance, wasn't there?
The church bells sang seven. His Saturday coat waited patiently by the door, its black sleeves faded to brown, buttons dulled by time. Like him, it had stories to tell.
The morning air bit his cheeks as he walked to the shelter. Winter was always generous with its lessons about warmth.
7:17.
"It's cold today isn't it?"
"Here, some warm soup to warm you up."
"Of course, just doing what I can."
Handing out the last portion, he grabbed his bag, ready to leave.
"Umm excuse me sir!"
Left, right, befuddled, he turned his head, searching for the voice.
"Umm sir?"
Standing behind the counter, her face half-hidden by a beanie two sizes too large, was a little girl. Her eyes held that peculiar hope only children seem capable of.
"Do you have any soup left?" she asked, her breath visible in the cold air. Somehow, she reminded him of himself at that age – too proud to admit hunger, too young to hide it.
Eyeing the soup he saved for himself, he smiled: "Why of course, I saved this just for you."
(Lie)
Walking back home, a message lit up his phone: "Lunch at the cafe?"
Grinning, he turned around.
10:48.
He was a little too early, as always. Fidgeting with his phone, he scrolled through his contacts. "Her." He laughed softly. He'd meant to delete her contact months ago, but compromised by setting her name as just "Her." Some memories refuse to be erased.
"Wonder how she's doing."
"Hey, it's been a while."
"... yeah it has been."
"How you doing? Classes going well?"
"I graduated last year, remember?"
Right. She was always smart, planning to graduate early. Some things never changed.
"We never really got to talk. But I wanted to say thanks ... for all the memories."
"Are you ok?"
Right. She always had sharp senses. The way she could read between his lines – that hadn't changed either.
"What could possibly be wrong? I just wanted to check how you were doing."
(Lie)
"Ah, gotta go now. My friend's here." Beep.
(Lie)
11:01.
Still time left.
Smiling from his call, he thought "If there's one thing I'll miss, it'll be talking with her."
(Truth)
"Hey! Did you wait long?"
"No no, I just got here."
(Lie)
"You find anyone yet? You should think about seeing someone. Oh wait, you're still stuck on her right?"
"Stop, you know that's not it. I've just been too busy to meet anyone."
His coffee arrived, the aroma bringing him back to this morning's ritual. Funny how a single day could feel like a lifetime.
1:14. "Yeah I'll see you at class."
(Lie)
14:05.
A pile of blank cards sat before him, each one a chance to say what he never could. Everyone he knew deserved one last word.
"Guess I'll write them a letter."
"Dear ..."
The quiet scratch of his pen filled the room. With each letter, he slipped in a polaroid – frozen moments of shared laughter, of ordinary days that now felt extraordinary.
"Will they remember how I smile?"
Some letters were easy – thank yous to professors who shaped his mind, apologies to friends he'd cancelled on too often. Others took more courage. To his parents, who never understood why he studied philosophy instead of medicine, but loved him anyway. To his little sister, who still called him her hero.
16:12.
The last letter. "Hey Professor! Sorry for sleeping in your lecture the other day ... you know physics isn't my thing. I wanted to say that I'll be missing class Monday. And the rest of the semester. Thanks for everything!"
19:48.
Snow fell like memories – soft, pure, fleeting. Couples walked hand in hand, their breath mingling in the cold air. Christmas lights turned snowflakes into falling stars.
"I'll miss walking these streets."
The grinning butcher who always saved him the best cuts, the kid who never failed to wave, the birds that sang him to class each morning, the trees that danced just for him – how strange that the most ordinary things now felt like miracles.
At home, he chose his finest fountain pen. The paper welcomed its touch like an old friend.
If you're reading this, congratulations! You meant something to me... good or bad. All jokes aside, I'm really glad you're reading this. Really glad.
I always knew this day would come, as it does for all of us, just not so fast. Some questions don't need answers, and some answers don't need questions. The miracle was never in the time we're given, but in what we choose to see in it.
I still have a lot I want to do. Travel the world, find another love, eat all the delicacies, read all the books. But maybe the beauty of life isn't in completing every dream, but in having dreams at all.
Thank you for walking through my last day with me. Thank you for seeing the world through my eyes, even if just once. Every coffee sip, every smile, every lie, every truth – they were all part of a life well-lived.
Today was my last day. And you know what? It was a good day.
(Truth)
Journal Entry 12/32/27