Jean had spent forty-seven years trying to care. He cared about deadlines, about his mother’s opinion, about the chipped paint on his front door. He cared so much that his shoulders were permanently curved inward, as if bracing for a falling sky.
At the park bench, an old man sat down beside him. “Beautiful day,” the man said. je m en fous
Je m’en fous —not as a wall, but as a door. Jean had spent forty-seven years trying to care
Then, one Tuesday, the sky did fall—metaphorically. His boss fired him for being “too agreeable.” His wife left a note saying she’d found someone who “argued back.” And his cat, Bébert, stared at him from the sofa with an expression that said, I’ve seen your soul, and it’s beige. At the park bench, an old man sat down beside him
He never became a monk or a philanthropist. He never had a grand epiphany. But when he went home that night, he didn’t turn on the TV. He opened the window. He heard the neighbor’s baby crying, the distant train, Bébert purring from the armchair.