☕ Coffee and Quiet with Derek Wolf
The Day I Chose to Be Here
The living room is dim, the kind of gray morning that asks for quiet. Light slips through the blinds and lays soft stripes across the coffee table. A planner rests open beside a half-empty mug, the surface marked with faint rings of yesterday’s coffee. Pens without caps, folded receipts, and a stack of mail lean together in a small clutter of unfinished intentions. One red circle stands out on the page. Just one. It waits in silence.
The clock ticks from the corner, steady and patient. Every sound feels louder than it should. A single drip falls in the kitchen sink. The hum of the refrigerator carries through the walls. The room is not loud, yet it hums with a weight that mirrors her own. She knows this feeling well. It is the space between decision and avoidance, the pause that becomes its own exhaustion.
She lifts the cup, tastes the cold edge of what was once warmth, and sets it down again. The taste mirrors her energy. Faded. Recycled. Half alive. The planner lies open to the wrong day. Half the boxes are crossed out. Most of them no longer matter, yet the red circle still does. It marks a single call she has promised herself she would make. The kind of call that cannot be rushed and cannot be ignored. The kind that changes something beneath the surface.
If today isn’t the day, remember us when your moment opens.
Buy Me a Coffee
Her gaze drifts toward the window. The air outside looks pale and still, caught between night and morning. She glances back at the clock. Time has already moved without her. She straightens a pillow, folds a blanket, and shuffles the mail into neat stacks. Each movement appears useful, but none of it brings her closer to the one thing she keeps circling.
These are her rituals of avoidance. Small, convincing gestures that let her stay busy enough to avoid being present. She has lived inside this loop many times. It feels productive at first, then hollow, then heavy. Every distraction offers the illusion of control while feeding the same quiet anxiety beneath it.
She presses a hand against her chest and feels the tightness beneath her palm. The body always speaks first. Shoulders lift. Jaw sets. Breath shortens. Muscles hold tension where movement should be. She recognizes the pattern. Energy constricts each time she turns away from what matters. It opens the moment she moves toward it. This is not emotion. It is direction.
She stands by the window. Dust turns slowly through a beam of light. The curtain shifts with the faintest breeze. That small movement draws her attention back to the present. She inhales. The breath lands lower. For the first time all morning, she feels the weight in her stomach begin to change. Then the question arrives, quiet and clear. Is this moving me forward, or just keeping me busy?
The words are not thought so much as felt. A pulse of knowing behind the ribs. She looks again at the planner, then at the clock. The hour nearly gone. The task untouched. Busy has always looked safer, but safety has cost her peace. She remembers other mornings that looked full but ended empty, days that left her tired though she never began the thing that mattered most. The realization lands cleanly. She is not weary from doing too much. She is weary from avoiding what needs to move.
The clock marks the hour with a soft chime. The sound feels like permission. She pulls the planner closer and rests her fingers on the red circle. Her hand trembles slightly. The resistance is still there, but so is the clarity. She takes a long breath and sits down. The chair creaks beneath her, a gentle sound that feels like agreement.
The phone waits beside the mug. She looks at it for a long moment. Thoughts rise and scatter. The mind searches for excuses to delay. None hold up. The silence expands until the only thing left to do is act. The body decides before the mind can interfere. Her shoulders lower. Her pulse steadies. The air feels different now. She presses the call button.
The first ring lands heavy. The second softer. By the third, her breath has steadied. The voice that answers surprises her. It is kind. Human. The conversation begins awkwardly, then evens out. Words come slowly, truthfully. The silence between them is not uncomfortable. It is honest.
When the call ends, the room feels wider. The light through the blinds has shifted, pale gold now instead of gray. The clock still ticks, but no longer presses against her. The planner lies open. The red circle remains, but its meaning has changed. It no longer marks avoidance. It marks courage. The small kind. The kind that restores breath and clears space.
She closes her eyes and listens to her own body. The jaw has softened. The stomach feels open. The chest moves freely. What she feels now is not triumph. It is peace. She has returned to herself. The kind of return that costs nothing yet changes everything.
From the kitchen, the kettle clicks off. The sound moves through the quiet like a sigh. She walks over, pours water into a mug, and watches steam rise in lazy curls. She stirs in honey and lets the scent fill the air. The moment feels small and sacred. There is nothing to prove, only something to feel.
She carries the tea back to the table and opens the planner again. Beneath the red circle, she writes one sentence in slow, steady handwriting. Presence is not earned. It is chosen.
She sits for a long time, letting the words settle. Around her, the house remains still. The curtain lifts with each passing breeze. The faint smell of rain drifts through the open window. She breathes in deeply, then lets the air leave without rush or control. The simple rhythm feels like a language she is remembering.
She thinks of how many mornings she filled with motion to avoid stillness. How many lists she made, how many small victories she celebrated that changed nothing inside her. She smiles softly. There is a different kind of success now, one that does not measure completion but awareness. The awareness that she is here, awake, and no longer circling the same invisible line.
The tea cools. The clock continues its rhythm. Light moves across the floor, inching toward the wall. She does not move to chase it. She lets it pass, calm and unhurried. There is no race left in her today. Only space. Only presence.
Later, she will handle what remains on the list. She will answer messages, fold clothes, and finish what needs doing. But none of it will come from pressure. It will come from steadiness. The kind of steadiness that begins when she listens inward instead of chasing outward.
She finishes the last sip of tea and sets the mug down. It makes a quiet sound against the table, the sound of completion that feels clean instead of rushed. The planner remains open. The red circle is no longer a mark of waiting. It is a reminder of what happens when she chooses to begin.
She stands and walks toward the window. The light has softened again. The bird that sang earlier is gone. The morning has become afternoon without her noticing. She smiles. Time keeps moving, but it no longer drags her with it. She has stepped into it instead of chasing it.
The Truth Beneath
She learned something simple that morning. Distraction wears a dozen disguises, each one pretending to help while quietly stealing presence. Clarity does not come from more logic or more control. It comes from noticing where your energy expands and where it contracts.
Avoidance exhausts. Presence restores. The body always knows the difference. And the day begins to change the moment you choose to be here, not rushing, not waiting, but fully alive in what matters.
Stories written in the quiet hours.
Derek Wolf.
“The Truth Beneath”
The Day I Chose to Be Here
The living room is dim, the kind of gray morning that asks for quiet. Light slips through the blinds and lays soft stripes across the coffee table. A planner rests open beside a half-empty mug, the surface marked with faint rings of yesterday’s coffee. Pens without caps, folded receipts, and a stack of mail lean together in a small clutter of unfinished intentions. One red circle stands out on the page. Just one. It waits in silence.
The clock ticks from the corner, steady and patient. Every sound feels louder than it should. A single drip falls in the kitchen sink. The hum of the refrigerator carries through the walls. The room is not loud, yet it hums with a weight that mirrors her own. She knows this feeling well. It is the space between decision and avoidance, the pause that becomes its own exhaustion.
She lifts the cup, tastes the cold edge of what was once warmth, and sets it down again. The taste mirrors her energy. Faded. Recycled. Half alive. The planner lies open to the wrong day. Half the boxes are crossed out. Most of them no longer matter, yet the red circle still does. It marks a single call she has promised herself she would make. The kind of call that cannot be rushed and cannot be ignored. The kind that changes something beneath the surface.
If today isn’t the day, remember us when your moment opens.
Buy Me a Coffee
Her gaze drifts toward the window. The air outside looks pale and still, caught between night and morning. She glances back at the clock. Time has already moved without her. She straightens a pillow, folds a blanket, and shuffles the mail into neat stacks. Each movement appears useful, but none of it brings her closer to the one thing she keeps circling.
These are her rituals of avoidance. Small, convincing gestures that let her stay busy enough to avoid being present. She has lived inside this loop many times. It feels productive at first, then hollow, then heavy. Every distraction offers the illusion of control while feeding the same quiet anxiety beneath it.
She presses a hand against her chest and feels the tightness beneath her palm. The body always speaks first. Shoulders lift. Jaw sets. Breath shortens. Muscles hold tension where movement should be. She recognizes the pattern. Energy constricts each time she turns away from what matters. It opens the moment she moves toward it. This is not emotion. It is direction.
She stands by the window. Dust turns slowly through a beam of light. The curtain shifts with the faintest breeze. That small movement draws her attention back to the present. She inhales. The breath lands lower. For the first time all morning, she feels the weight in her stomach begin to change. Then the question arrives, quiet and clear. Is this moving me forward, or just keeping me busy?
The words are not thought so much as felt. A pulse of knowing behind the ribs. She looks again at the planner, then at the clock. The hour nearly gone. The task untouched. Busy has always looked safer, but safety has cost her peace. She remembers other mornings that looked full but ended empty, days that left her tired though she never began the thing that mattered most. The realization lands cleanly. She is not weary from doing too much. She is weary from avoiding what needs to move.
The clock marks the hour with a soft chime. The sound feels like permission. She pulls the planner closer and rests her fingers on the red circle. Her hand trembles slightly. The resistance is still there, but so is the clarity. She takes a long breath and sits down. The chair creaks beneath her, a gentle sound that feels like agreement.
The phone waits beside the mug. She looks at it for a long moment. Thoughts rise and scatter. The mind searches for excuses to delay. None hold up. The silence expands until the only thing left to do is act. The body decides before the mind can interfere. Her shoulders lower. Her pulse steadies. The air feels different now. She presses the call button.
The first ring lands heavy. The second softer. By the third, her breath has steadied. The voice that answers surprises her. It is kind. Human. The conversation begins awkwardly, then evens out. Words come slowly, truthfully. The silence between them is not uncomfortable. It is honest.
When the call ends, the room feels wider. The light through the blinds has shifted, pale gold now instead of gray. The clock still ticks, but no longer presses against her. The planner lies open. The red circle remains, but its meaning has changed. It no longer marks avoidance. It marks courage. The small kind. The kind that restores breath and clears space.
She closes her eyes and listens to her own body. The jaw has softened. The stomach feels open. The chest moves freely. What she feels now is not triumph. It is peace. She has returned to herself. The kind of return that costs nothing yet changes everything.
From the kitchen, the kettle clicks off. The sound moves through the quiet like a sigh. She walks over, pours water into a mug, and watches steam rise in lazy curls. She stirs in honey and lets the scent fill the air. The moment feels small and sacred. There is nothing to prove, only something to feel.
She carries the tea back to the table and opens the planner again. Beneath the red circle, she writes one sentence in slow, steady handwriting. Presence is not earned. It is chosen.
She sits for a long time, letting the words settle. Around her, the house remains still. The curtain lifts with each passing breeze. The faint smell of rain drifts through the open window. She breathes in deeply, then lets the air leave without rush or control. The simple rhythm feels like a language she is remembering.
She thinks of how many mornings she filled with motion to avoid stillness. How many lists she made, how many small victories she celebrated that changed nothing inside her. She smiles softly. There is a different kind of success now, one that does not measure completion but awareness. The awareness that she is here, awake, and no longer circling the same invisible line.
The tea cools. The clock continues its rhythm. Light moves across the floor, inching toward the wall. She does not move to chase it. She lets it pass, calm and unhurried. There is no race left in her today. Only space. Only presence.
Later, she will handle what remains on the list. She will answer messages, fold clothes, and finish what needs doing. But none of it will come from pressure. It will come from steadiness. The kind of steadiness that begins when she listens inward instead of chasing outward.
She finishes the last sip of tea and sets the mug down. It makes a quiet sound against the table, the sound of completion that feels clean instead of rushed. The planner remains open. The red circle is no longer a mark of waiting. It is a reminder of what happens when she chooses to begin.
She stands and walks toward the window. The light has softened again. The bird that sang earlier is gone. The morning has become afternoon without her noticing. She smiles. Time keeps moving, but it no longer drags her with it. She has stepped into it instead of chasing it.
The Truth Beneath
She learned something simple that morning. Distraction wears a dozen disguises, each one pretending to help while quietly stealing presence. Clarity does not come from more logic or more control. It comes from noticing where your energy expands and where it contracts.
Avoidance exhausts. Presence restores. The body always knows the difference. And the day begins to change the moment you choose to be here, not rushing, not waiting, but fully alive in what matters.
Stories written in the quiet hours.
Derek Wolf.
“The Truth Beneath”
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