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That One Chair in the House Nobody Sits On


I woke up at 3 a.m. to go to the CR.

Nothing dramatic. No nightmare. No existential crisis—just the bladder doing its biological thing. But on the way back, as I passed through the hallway, I noticed it again.

That chair.

The one in the corner. Beige. Woven arms. Slightly tilted, as if someone had just stood up and forgotten to fix it. Except no one ever sits there.

It’s weird, right? How a chair—something built for sitting—can spend its whole life untouched. Like it was assigned a role and then silently exiled from it. That chair doesn’t serve a function anymore. It’s a fixture. A witness. A relic.

And in the half-light of 3 a.m., it didn’t look lonely. It looked… patient.

That’s when it hit me. What if it wasn’t just a chair? What if it was absorbing things? Regrets. Thoughts no one says out loud. That creeping, subtle unease you feel when your life is technically okay but still feels misaligned. Maybe that’s why no one sits there. Maybe that’s where those quiet feelings go to rot politely.

Or ferment.

Because when I looked at it—really looked at it—I felt this strange pull. Not inviting, not comforting. Just curious. Like it wanted to be remembered for something. Like it was waiting for someone to finally break the unspoken rule and just... sit.

But I didn’t.

I turned away. Got back into bed. Pretended it wasn’t weird that a piece of furniture made me feel like I was being watched by my own unresolved past. The kind of past you didn’t even live—but almost did. Alternate-you. The bolder one. The reckless one. The one who maybe sat on metaphorical chairs without asking for permission.

And now it’s 3:28 a.m., and I’m still awake.
Thinking about that damn chair.

Because maybe it’s not just furniture.
Maybe it’s a placeholder.
For everything we haven’t dared to become. 

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