Eternal Ephemerals

Always guilty

Ethan closed his laptop with a soft click, the hum of its cooling fan fading into the ambient stillness of his apartment. The clock on the wall blinked 8:37 PM in glaring red digits, but time felt irrelevant now. He'd been grinding for weeks—work, work, and more work. It was the rhythm of his life, and he'd convinced himself it was necessary. Success demanded it, didn't it? His body, though, had other plans. It was screaming for rest.

He rose slowly from his desk, feeling the tightness in his shoulders and the dull ache at the base of his spine. He should be relieved. He'd been craving this—just a break, just a few hours of nothing. He made his way to the couch, sinking into its familiar cushions like he was falling into a long-forgotten dream.

But as he stared blankly at the dark TV screen, a knot of unease began to tighten in his chest. He was on a break. This was what he'd wanted. So why did it feel like something was wrong?

The silence in the room was too thick, too heavy. His mind started to drift, each thought fraying into the next like tangled threads.

You deserve this, a small voice in his head whispered, trying to soothe him. You've been working non-stop. No one can sustain that forever. Everyone needs to recharge.

And yet, another voice, sharper and more persistent, crept in from the edges. You're wasting time. This is precious time slipping through your fingers. What are you even doing right now?

Ethan shifted uncomfortably, grabbing the remote, his thumb hovering over the buttons. He didn't even know what he wanted to watch. It was as if the choice itself was too overwhelming. The hundreds of movies, shows, and documentaries available at his fingertips suddenly seemed like too much work. Too much... effort.

Effort, the word echoed in his mind. What's wrong with you? You've been complaining about needing a break for weeks. Now you have it. So why does this feel so... empty?

He put the remote down. His eyes wandered to the corner of the room, where a stack of unopened books sat on the floor, mocking him. He had promised himself that he would read during his downtime. After all, wasn't reading a productive kind of rest? But even that felt like an obligation now, not a pleasure.

The knot in his chest tightened. He could feel his heart beating faster, a kind of low-grade anxiety humming beneath the surface. He closed his eyes, pressing his fingers against his temples as if he could physically push the thoughts away.

Do something. You're wasting time. You don't even know how to relax anymore.

His mind was a crowded room, voices overlapping, arguing, pulling him in a dozen different directions.

You're supposed to be resting! Just breathe. Stop thinking so much. Enjoy this.

Enjoy what? Sitting here, doing nothing? The accusatory tone cut through the fog. You could be working on something right now. You could be improving. Learning. Growing. Instead, you're... what? Watching the clock?

Ethan's eyes snapped open. The clock was glowing 9:02 PM now. Nearly half an hour had passed, and he'd done nothing. Nothing at all. And yet, he felt even more exhausted than before. His muscles were stiff, his brain was buzzing, but the worst part was the creeping sensation of guilt—guilt for not working, for not using this time better.

It's fine. You need this. He tried again to reassure himself. Everyone needs to recharge.

But did he? Was that true for him, or was it just something people said to justify being lazy? Ethan had spent his whole life striving, pushing himself. Slowing down felt like losing momentum, and momentum was everything. Without it, what was he?

The question lodged itself in his chest, heavy and unyielding.

What was he, without the constant forward motion? Without the endless to-do lists, the deadlines, the tasks that gave his day structure and meaning? The truth gnawed at him, deep and unsettling: he didn't know how to be still. He didn't know how to stop.

And now, in this rare moment of pause, he was being confronted by a darker thought, one he tried to avoid most days: What if all this work, all this effort, isn't leading anywhere?

The room felt smaller now, the walls pressing in as his thoughts spiraled.

He glanced at the clock again. 9:15 PM. Forty-five minutes of nothingness.

He stood up abruptly, his body restless, his mind refusing to settle. The quiet was too much. The guilt, too much. The idea of simply being without producing gnawed at him in a way that he hadn't anticipated. It wasn't just that he couldn't relax—he was terrified of it.

Maybe he wasn't built for rest. Maybe some people didn't deserve breaks, or maybe they just weren't capable of enjoying them. The work was what gave his life purpose, right? Without it, what did he have? He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes darting back to his laptop, as if it held the answers to his existential crisis.

Just a few minutes of work, he thought, already justifying the decision. Just enough to feel like I'm not wasting time.

The laptop lid flipped open with a familiar click, the screen bathing his face in a soft glow. He exhaled, some part of him finally feeling at ease again, as though the chaos in his mind could only be tamed by diving back into work.

But even as his fingers hovered over the keyboard, that gnawing doubt remained.

Was this peace? Or was it just another way to avoid the silence?