She who walked in circles
It didn't really start with anything big, although it would be convenient to pretend it did. No thresholds that creaked, no root balls that fell across the path, no aha moments that someone could print on a coffee cup and sell as life wisdom.
It was just a day like any other, and that's exactly why it became important.
She stood in the hall, searching for a shawl that she was absolutely certain she had placed “somewhere logically.” Her logic was an ecosystem of its own—one where things disappeared the moment she tried to place them. The shawl was gone, and she swore loudly, not for the drama but because sometimes swearing was the only language the General understood.
The general stood beside her in the tank, straight as ever, ready to organize the world through discipline and quicker steps.
“Go,” he said.
“We don’t have time for this.”
On the other side stood the Archivist, with his eternally dusty folder and glasses that he never really polished. He cleared his throat.
“This reminds me of a morning three years ago when you…”
She placed a hand over his folder before he could continue.
“No. We're not going there today.”
But it wasn't the two of them that made her stop.
It was The Patient One.
She said nothing—never did—but her presence was as clear as the weight of a hand on her shoulder. It was never a message, more like a kind of slow, self-evident look that said: You can actually choose something else.
And then there was the Acrobat. She always appeared at the most unwelcome moments, often dangling upside down from some mental trapeze, ready to throw in a comment that pierced all self-absorption.
“You know the shawl is probably in the fridge,” she said now.
“The keys did it on Monday.”
She snorted, but smiled. The acrobat had a knack for letting air into rooms that had become too stuffy. It was almost annoying how often she was needed.
She didn't find the shawl, but she found something else: a flat small stone in her jacket pocket.
She didn't remember where it came from.
It was warm, even though she hadn't worn the jacket since the day before.
She held it between her fingers longer than was practical, and that very moment – that slight delay – caused something inside her to change direction. Just a millimeter. But that millimeter was the beginning of the rest of it all.
---
For a long time, she had believed that she was a person who already understood her own history.
It was a comfortable thought, like an old glove you use even though it sticks.
She knew what mistakes she had made, what people had hurt her, and what chapters should have been written in red pen.
She was almost proud of being so aware.
But over the years, that pride had started to feel more like a contract she had signed with herself and forgotten to terminate.
She was tired of reacting on autopilot, tired of wearing facial expressions that no longer belonged to her, tired of the General marching even on days that only needed soft steps.
There was one thing she avoided admitting:
She had stopped developing at the same pace as life continued.
Not because she lacked will – but because the Archivist kept bringing out folders when she tried to move forward.
“This person betrayed you,” he could say.
“This day everything went wrong.”
“This proves you have to be careful.”
And she answered, without really being convinced:
“Yes, yes. I hear you.”
It was the patient one who saw through her the most.
She had no binders.
She had no orders.
Just a calm method: wait until she realizes what she is trying to avoid.
---
It happened on a Monday, one that has a grayness that doesn't come from the clouds but from people walking too fast. She was sitting in a café, not because she wanted to but because she couldn't bear to be at home.
It smelled of espresso, a wet jacket and a bit of anonymity – just what she needed.
She took out her phone and saw a message.
A person she hadn't heard from in a long time.
Three words:
“Do you have time?”
She felt the General take aim. He loved structure, and people who returned from the past were not part of any structure.
The archivist had a triumphant look in his eyes. He was already holding up the correct folder.
“Well, here it comes again,” he said. “Page 14. Damage, marked in red.”
But the Acrobat fluttered past.
“Do you really want to let two outdated gentlemen dictate your emotions for an entire day? They’re not even wearing belts.”
She laughed. In the midst of seriousness. A real laugh that made a waitress turn around.
That's when she noticed something had changed.
Life no longer felt like a battle between different voices.
It felt more like a scene where she finally took the lead role.
She replied:
“What does it matter?”
It was a neutral meeting. No charge, no revenge, no emotional explosion.
The conversation was almost… matter-of-fact.
For the first time in her life, she sat across from someone who had once been able to overturn her self-image, and felt absolutely nothing lost.
As she left, she thought:
I didn't lose myself that time. I just lost my direction for a while.
It was like seeing a puzzle that had previously seemed threatening, but was now just… pieces.
Parts she no longer needed to sort through to understand her life.
---
The really big shift came later, one evening when she realized that she had actually known everything from the beginning – but that she had not been ready to act on it.
She was sitting on the floor, packing old papers into a box. The general usually despised it—he found packing inefficient and sentimental—but this time he let her hold him.
Maybe because The Patient One was sitting close.
There, in a plastic folder that should have been thrown away long ago, was a note she didn't remember writing:
“I want to live a life where I can breathe all the way down.”
She read the sentence several times.
It wasn't poetic. It wasn't bold.
But it was true.
So true that she almost felt nauseous from how long she had ignored it.
She remained on the floor for a while.
Not because drama suited her – it rarely did – but because the simplicity of the sentence cut through her as truth sometimes does: silent, consistent and impossible to escape.
The archivist browsed through his folders but found no match.
The general stood still.
The Patient One was present.
And the Acrobat said:
“You know you can’t breathe properly if you’re always trying to look professional? Just mentioning it.”
She laughed again, and this time something burst.
A laugh of relief.
One that came from a place she hadn't used in a long time.
---
It was surprising how quickly things started to fall into place once she stopped knocking everything over as soon as something rubbed. No revolution was needed.
Just small decisions that she previously ducked.
Like accepting an invitation she used to decline.
Like saying no to someone who always took up more space than they gave.
Like wearing that color she had long thought she “couldn't wear,” but which was actually made for her.
And slowly the world began to respond.
Not with joy.
But with something better: consistency.
People treated her differently because she did it herself.
Not loud, not noticeable – but discreet, like when the sea changes rhythm without changing color.
The Patient One nodded often.
The general began to practice walking more slowly.
The archivist actually cleared out a folder.
And the Acrobat… well, the Acrobat taught her that sometimes you have to step aside to see your own development without magnification.
---
One evening she sat in front of the mirror and realized something that should have been obvious, but which she had never admitted:
She had not become a new woman.
She had just stopped being the copy of her past.
It was a transformative realization, but not dramatic – more like finally remembering a code you thought you had forgotten forever.
And when she fully understood it, when it landed in her as a lived truth and not just a thought, something strange happened:
All parts of her – the General, the Archivist, the Patient, and the Acrobat – stopped arguing about who she should be.
For the first time, they stood not as competitors, but as a team.
The general, who had always wanted to march forward, almost bowed his head.
“We go when you say we go.”
The archivist put his folder back.
“You are not defined by what I have saved.”
The Patient One placed his hand on her chest.
“You don’t have to hunt.”
The acrobat lit an imaginary confetti cannon.
"Finally!"
She laughed out loud.
A laugh that opened a new door in her.
---
That's when she truly understood:
She hadn't changed because the world demanded it.
She had changed because she finally had time to catch up with the woman she had long suspected she could be.
The day she stopped going in circles, and started walking in her own direction – even if the steps were small – was the day her life became bigger than her story.
And the big ending?
It came quietly.
Of course.
Not as an ending – but as the beginning of the next chapter.
When she went to bed that night, she thought:
“If someone asks who I was yesterday – let me answer with who I am today.”
And somewhere inside her, deep where no symbol ever needed to be explained, her inner voices answered as one:
“Then we go.”
——
by Hermines - November 19, 2025
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