It’s Sunday noon. I sit at home. Outside, the world is utterly still.
all I can hear is the soft whispers of nature — birdsong, rustling leaves, the occasional distant car.
It’s the first real scorcher of the year, over thirty degrees. The kind of heat that makes the air shimmer.

Everyone is out there, soaking it up — at the lakes, in the mountains, cycling, hiking, chasing summer like it might vanish tomorrow.
And me?
I feel no such urge. No pull.

The thought of crowded paths, packed beaches, the forced cheer of weekend warriors…
No, thank you.
I stay home.

Already I can hear the Monday small talk echoing across office desks:
“Did you have a nice weekend?”
“Where did you go in this amazing weather?”

“I stayed home.”
“What?! You stayed in on a day like that?”

There’s a certain script we’re expected to follow:
Sun equals action.
Beautiful weather demands proof of life — photos, activities, tan lines.
Doing nothing is only acceptable when it rains. Then, and only then, you may rest without guilt.
Then it’s fine to say, “I just stayed in,” and everyone nods in understanding.

But when the sun shines like today, there’s pressure.
Internal. Subtle. Constant.
That voice in your head:
“You can’t waste this. Do something! Go somewhere! Anything but staying home.”

Fine, I tell myself. Let’s consider.

Cycling? Too hot.
A trip to the lake? Tempting — but it’ll be crowded. I’ll end up searching for peace, a quiet corner, a patch of shade away from the noise.
But wait… isn’t that exactly what I already have, right here?

Canoeing? Romantic idea. But the river’s still icy.
Refreshing, perhaps. But also borderline masochistic.

So, I step outside.
I string up the hammock in the garden.
Fetch a cold beer.
Crack open a book.

And I let the world pass by.

Today, I stay at home.