This day we own

A 5 chapter mini-novel fiction focusing on the sense of living fully in the present, without being trapped in anticipation or regret. The protagonist begins to learn how to slow down and welcome today instead of always chasing tomorrow.

Chapter 2: Waiting

This chapter expands on the themes of waiting for the future, the disconnect between people in personal relationships, and the overwhelming need to be heard without truly engaging with others. In today’s world, we are so focused on talking, on projecting ourselves, that we’ve forgotten how to truly listen — to our family, our friends, and even to ourselves. Just as the protagonist realizes he has missed out on moments by waiting for something better, he understands that he has also missed the people in his life by treating them as stepping stones to some future goal.

He sat at his desk, staring at the email he had just sent, waiting for the response. His phone buzzed, another notification lighting up the screen, but it wasn’t what he wanted. It never was. He was always waiting for something — an answer, a moment, the next step. But it wasn’t just the emails or the notifications; it was everything. It had always been that way. He’d spent his life waiting for the future to arrive, never noticing how much of the present he was letting slip away.

He thought of the dinner with his family last week. He had been there, physically, but his mind had been elsewhere — on work, on deadlines, on everything except the people sitting around the table. They had talked, laughed, shared stories, but he hadn’t listened. He hadn’t heard a word. They were there, in the room, but to him, they were just bridges to the future — connections to be maintained, obligations to be fulfilled, something to check off his list so he could get back to what really mattered. But what was that?

He realized with a slow, creeping unease that he didn’t know anymore. Family gatherings, calls with friends, those should have been moments to enjoy — to be present, to listen, to share — but he treated them like distractions. He wanted to get through them as quickly as possible, his mind always focused on the next thing. He was always waiting for something better, something more important.

It wasn’t just him. Everyone seemed to be talking, all the time. At work, in meetings, on calls, in messages. Everyone wanted to share their thoughts, their opinions. He had been guilty of it too, talking without thinking, talking just to be heard. But no one was really listening.

They sat around the table, each person waiting for their turn to speak. The conversation was fast, bouncing from one voice to another, but nothing was really said. He thought about what would happen if everyone talked and no one listened. It was already happening.

Without listening, the conversation was just noise — background chatter, empty words that filled the space but didn’t mean anything. It was like taking pictures without seeing, like rushing from one landmark to the next without experiencing the place. Everyone was too busy thinking about what they would say next to hear what was being said in the moment.

He thought back to his last conversation with his brother. It had been weeks ago, maybe longer. They had talked, briefly, about work, about plans for the holidays. His brother had tried to tell him something important, something personal, but he hadn’t listened. He had been too focused on his own thoughts, on how to end the conversation and get back to his work. Now, he couldn’t remember what his brother had said. He had missed it, completely.

It struck him then how often he had done this — treated the people in his life as stepping stones to something else, some distant future where everything would finally fall into place. He had always assumed there would be more time, more opportunities to connect, to really listen, to be present. But what if there wasn’t? What if he had already missed the most important moments?

The day passed in the usual blur. Meetings, phone calls, emails. He talked, he typed, he communicated. But by the end of the day, he couldn’t remember any of it. The conversations he had, the things he had done — they all blurred together into a haze of activity. He had been building something, but what? The future he was waiting for never seemed to arrive. It was always just out of reach, another day away, another step further.

He wondered what it would be like to stop waiting, to stop talking so much and start listening. To sit with his family at dinner and really hear what they were saying. To be there, fully, in the moment, without his mind racing ahead to the next thing. He wondered if it was even possible, or if he had lost that ability entirely.

But then he remembered the café, the sunset he hadn’t seen, the river he hadn’t noticed. He had been running that day, but now, as he sat in the quiet of his room, he realized that running had never gotten him anywhere. The future wasn’t something you could catch up to; it wasn’t something you could wait for. It was always moving, just like he was.

What if, instead of waiting, he started living now?