☕ Coffee and Quiet with Derek Wolf
When Emotions Spill Over
The car rests beneath a row of oaks, engine silent, windows cracked just enough for the scent of warm leaves to slip inside.
She keeps both hands on the wheel even though the key sits quiet in the ignition.
A few minutes ago the passenger door opened, then closed with a firm click.
The conversation ended for the person who walked away.
Inside the car, it still lives in the air like a storm that refuses to move on.
You never listen.
You always turn it back on me.
Why can’t you understand.
The words hang in the small space, their tone louder than their volume, replaying in short, sharp loops that reach into her chest.
If today isn’t the day, remember us when your moment opens.
Buy Me a Coffee
Her shoulders rise without permission.
Breath sits high and thin, collecting near her collarbones.
The muscles along her neck hold tight as if the next sentence might still arrive and land with the same force.
Tears gather behind her eyes, ready to fall, heavy and close, as she stares through the windshield at a slice of sky between the branches.
She recognizes the feeling.
Someone else has emptied their weather into the room and now it lives inside her body instead of theirs.
A raised voice becomes pressure at the base of her throat.
A wounded tone becomes a knot under her ribs.
A disappointed look settles behind her own eyes long after the other person leaves.
Memory gathers quiet proof.
A night on a friend’s porch while grief poured out in circles and she carried that sorrow home like wet fabric over her shoulders.
A long drive with a sister after an argument that started before she arrived and kept going after she dropped her off, yet her own jaw ached the next morning as if she had done all the shouting herself.
Set her near a spill and some part of her begins to soak it up.
The same pull begins now.
Her jaw clamps.
Her tongue feels heavy.
Breath refuses to move lower.
The urge to cry swells, not from her own story, but from the residue of someone else’s feelings, still clinging to the inside of the car.
She closes her eyes and speaks a sentence she is learning to trust.
This is not mine.
The words land first as thought, then as sensation.
She says them again, slower this time, like a stone placed gently on the floor of a river.
This is not mine.
Her shoulders lower by a small measure.
The tight ring around her throat loosens just enough for one deeper breath to pass through.
She tests a simple practice she has been building in quieter moments.
In through the nose, a soft count of four.
Out through the mouth, a gentle count of five.
Again.
Again.
One hand moves from the wheel to the base of her neck.
Warmth meets her fingertips.
Muscles soften by degrees, as if they finally received proof that the danger has passed.
The tears stay near the surface but do not rush forward.
She is not forcing them back.
She is deciding whether they belong to her own experience or arrived as visitors from someone else’s storm.
Outside the cracked window, two leaves loosen and turn slowly in the air before they land on the hood.
A child’s voice carries faintly from down the street, bright and distant.
Somewhere a door closes with a soft, final sound.
Life continues at its usual pace while time inside the car stretches wide enough for her to locate herself again.
Another memory drifts through, clear and unwelcome.
Sitting in a different car months ago, phone between her shoulder and ear, listening while fear spilled out on the other end of the line and brought anger with it.
She had tried reassurance.
Tried solutions.
Tried quiet agreement.
By the time she parked at home, her body felt like a house left open in bad weather, every room damp and unsettled.
In that season she believed that the size of her heart was measured by how much pain she could absorb.
The heavier the burden, the more loving she must be for offering to carry it.
Now, sitting alone under the trees, she feels the flaw in that belief press gently but firmly against her ribs.
Love is not the weight on her shoulders.
Love is the steadiness she brings to the person in front of her and to herself.
Her gaze returns to the windshield.
The sky between the branches glows a softer shade now, light thinning as the day leans toward evening.
She places another sentence in the space between her heart and her breath.
I can care and remain separate.
The words feel like a fence post settling into ground that has soaked through too many storms.
She imagines placing a second post, then a third, and running a simple line between them.
Not a wall, just a clear edge.
On one side, what belongs to her.
On the other, what belongs to the person who spoke in the passenger seat.
Her eyes prickle again.
This time the tears feel different.
One slips free and she allows it to travel down her cheek without apology.
It carries the work of untangling, the grief of how long she has confused collapse with compassion.
She wipes it with the back of her hand and feels the warmth of her own skin return beneath her fingertips.
She releases the steering wheel and opens the door.
Air moves in and wraps around her like cool cloth.
The scent of pine mixes with the faint smell of sun on pavement.
She stands beside the car with both feet firm on the ground, shoulders rolling back as a low ache along her jaw finally lets go.
She walks around to the passenger side and looks in through the glass.
The seat where the hard words landed appears harmless now, just fabric and foam and light.
Cars, rooms, and porches do this every day.
They hold the story for a moment, then release it as soon as the people leave.
It is only her body that keeps carrying what was never meant to live there.
With a small, deliberate motion, she closes the door and listens for the latch to catch.
The sound feels like punctuation at the end of a long sentence.
A full stop.
Enough.
On the short walk to her front door, she chooses one more act of care.
She pauses at the step with the key in her hand and imagines setting the entire conversation down beside the potted plant near the mat.
Not erased, not denied, simply placed outside the doorway of her own nervous system.
If there is repair work to do later, she can return to it with a clearer mind.
For now, it can stay on the porch instead of in her chest.
Inside, she pours a glass of water and drinks until she feels it settle behind her sternum.
She stands at the sink and allows her shoulders to drop one more time.
Her own view of the argument begins to appear, smaller than the flood she just left and quieter too.
It feels like her voice, clearly her own, alive inside a body that finally feels like home again.
She reaches for a small scrap of paper and writes one line she can see in the morning.
Stay with yourself first.
The sentence sits there, simple and steady, a reminder that care has room to reach outward only when it rises from a place that remains whole inside.
The Truth Beneath
Absorbing someone else’s emotions does not prove love.
It erases the person who offers it.
Real care lives in steadiness, in the choice to stay present without surrendering the ground beneath your own feet.
You can listen with an open heart, offer warmth and honesty, and still allow the weight of another person’s story to remain where it belongs.
When emotions spill over, the quiet courage is not in becoming the towel that soaks everything up.
It is in remaining yourself while you stand beside the storm.
Stories written in the quiet hours.
Derek Wolf.
“The Truth Beneath”
When Emotions Spill Over
The car rests beneath a row of oaks, engine silent, windows cracked just enough for the scent of warm leaves to slip inside.
She keeps both hands on the wheel even though the key sits quiet in the ignition.
A few minutes ago the passenger door opened, then closed with a firm click.
The conversation ended for the person who walked away.
Inside the car, it still lives in the air like a storm that refuses to move on.
You never listen.
You always turn it back on me.
Why can’t you understand.
The words hang in the small space, their tone louder than their volume, replaying in short, sharp loops that reach into her chest.
If today isn’t the day, remember us when your moment opens.
Buy Me a Coffee
Her shoulders rise without permission.
Breath sits high and thin, collecting near her collarbones.
The muscles along her neck hold tight as if the next sentence might still arrive and land with the same force.
Tears gather behind her eyes, ready to fall, heavy and close, as she stares through the windshield at a slice of sky between the branches.
She recognizes the feeling.
Someone else has emptied their weather into the room and now it lives inside her body instead of theirs.
A raised voice becomes pressure at the base of her throat.
A wounded tone becomes a knot under her ribs.
A disappointed look settles behind her own eyes long after the other person leaves.
Memory gathers quiet proof.
A night on a friend’s porch while grief poured out in circles and she carried that sorrow home like wet fabric over her shoulders.
A long drive with a sister after an argument that started before she arrived and kept going after she dropped her off, yet her own jaw ached the next morning as if she had done all the shouting herself.
Set her near a spill and some part of her begins to soak it up.
The same pull begins now.
Her jaw clamps.
Her tongue feels heavy.
Breath refuses to move lower.
The urge to cry swells, not from her own story, but from the residue of someone else’s feelings, still clinging to the inside of the car.
She closes her eyes and speaks a sentence she is learning to trust.
This is not mine.
The words land first as thought, then as sensation.
She says them again, slower this time, like a stone placed gently on the floor of a river.
This is not mine.
Her shoulders lower by a small measure.
The tight ring around her throat loosens just enough for one deeper breath to pass through.
She tests a simple practice she has been building in quieter moments.
In through the nose, a soft count of four.
Out through the mouth, a gentle count of five.
Again.
Again.
One hand moves from the wheel to the base of her neck.
Warmth meets her fingertips.
Muscles soften by degrees, as if they finally received proof that the danger has passed.
The tears stay near the surface but do not rush forward.
She is not forcing them back.
She is deciding whether they belong to her own experience or arrived as visitors from someone else’s storm.
Outside the cracked window, two leaves loosen and turn slowly in the air before they land on the hood.
A child’s voice carries faintly from down the street, bright and distant.
Somewhere a door closes with a soft, final sound.
Life continues at its usual pace while time inside the car stretches wide enough for her to locate herself again.
Another memory drifts through, clear and unwelcome.
Sitting in a different car months ago, phone between her shoulder and ear, listening while fear spilled out on the other end of the line and brought anger with it.
She had tried reassurance.
Tried solutions.
Tried quiet agreement.
By the time she parked at home, her body felt like a house left open in bad weather, every room damp and unsettled.
In that season she believed that the size of her heart was measured by how much pain she could absorb.
The heavier the burden, the more loving she must be for offering to carry it.
Now, sitting alone under the trees, she feels the flaw in that belief press gently but firmly against her ribs.
Love is not the weight on her shoulders.
Love is the steadiness she brings to the person in front of her and to herself.
Her gaze returns to the windshield.
The sky between the branches glows a softer shade now, light thinning as the day leans toward evening.
She places another sentence in the space between her heart and her breath.
I can care and remain separate.
The words feel like a fence post settling into ground that has soaked through too many storms.
She imagines placing a second post, then a third, and running a simple line between them.
Not a wall, just a clear edge.
On one side, what belongs to her.
On the other, what belongs to the person who spoke in the passenger seat.
Her eyes prickle again.
This time the tears feel different.
One slips free and she allows it to travel down her cheek without apology.
It carries the work of untangling, the grief of how long she has confused collapse with compassion.
She wipes it with the back of her hand and feels the warmth of her own skin return beneath her fingertips.
She releases the steering wheel and opens the door.
Air moves in and wraps around her like cool cloth.
The scent of pine mixes with the faint smell of sun on pavement.
She stands beside the car with both feet firm on the ground, shoulders rolling back as a low ache along her jaw finally lets go.
She walks around to the passenger side and looks in through the glass.
The seat where the hard words landed appears harmless now, just fabric and foam and light.
Cars, rooms, and porches do this every day.
They hold the story for a moment, then release it as soon as the people leave.
It is only her body that keeps carrying what was never meant to live there.
With a small, deliberate motion, she closes the door and listens for the latch to catch.
The sound feels like punctuation at the end of a long sentence.
A full stop.
Enough.
On the short walk to her front door, she chooses one more act of care.
She pauses at the step with the key in her hand and imagines setting the entire conversation down beside the potted plant near the mat.
Not erased, not denied, simply placed outside the doorway of her own nervous system.
If there is repair work to do later, she can return to it with a clearer mind.
For now, it can stay on the porch instead of in her chest.
Inside, she pours a glass of water and drinks until she feels it settle behind her sternum.
She stands at the sink and allows her shoulders to drop one more time.
Her own view of the argument begins to appear, smaller than the flood she just left and quieter too.
It feels like her voice, clearly her own, alive inside a body that finally feels like home again.
She reaches for a small scrap of paper and writes one line she can see in the morning.
Stay with yourself first.
The sentence sits there, simple and steady, a reminder that care has room to reach outward only when it rises from a place that remains whole inside.
The Truth Beneath
Absorbing someone else’s emotions does not prove love.
It erases the person who offers it.
Real care lives in steadiness, in the choice to stay present without surrendering the ground beneath your own feet.
You can listen with an open heart, offer warmth and honesty, and still allow the weight of another person’s story to remain where it belongs.
When emotions spill over, the quiet courage is not in becoming the towel that soaks everything up.
It is in remaining yourself while you stand beside the storm.
Stories written in the quiet hours.
Derek Wolf.
“The Truth Beneath”
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