The slipping away of days that will never return

And how that pain cuts deep when you live for the now, but remain trapped in everything that makes it impossible

I don’t know how to deal with this.

The pain that overwhelms me now is not new. It is old. Familiar. Always returning. But that doesn’t make it any less sharp. It is the pain of seeing it coming, of sensing it, of naming it, of pressing on and then having to watch it unfold exactly as you feared, while standing there as if you had made it all up. As if being right wasn’t enough punishment, you also have to endure it.

Last week I said it several times: let’s go on Friday. Friday is the only truly good day. The only day with sun, without rain, without a heavy storm. Because I saw it all coming (the forecasts, the energy of the surroundings, the festival in the neighborhood that would disturb us): I felt in every way that it had to be the moment. Not just any moment. A chance. A short escape. And most of all: a day when we, even if only for a few hours, would not be locked inside this tiny room where the walls have pressed against our skin for years. But we didn’t go.

Mart hesitated. He thought the wind was too strong to drive that far. And I understand. Because for us, every outing costs preparation, coordination, and energy. It is never “just stepping outside.” It is managing overstimulation, planning routes, calculating how much energy will remain for the real necessary things once we’re back. He wanted to save his strength for Sunday, the day he was supposed to finally replace the diesel tank of the camper; something that had been postponed for weeks. That job needs a calm morning, on relatively dry ground, in an environment where drunk people don’t wander or speakers don’t break the silence.

So he said no to Friday. And I said: what if Sunday doesn’t work out? What if it rains? What if we wake up again to the chaos of that festival? What if we are left behind again with nothing? And he said he couldn’t risk that Friday wouldn’t be worth it, that the ride in the wind would make it even more stressful. And I had to let it go. Because how can you convince someone when you yourself feel how fragile the balance is?

Now it’s Sunday morning. Eight thirty. It has rained longer than expected. Of course it rained during the night and of course the sun shines now. The ground is wet; impossible to crawl under a camper. And the festival kept us awake through the night. Noise crashing over the neighborhood. No rest again. And even worse: the festival grounds lie right next to where our camper is stored, the same area where last week’s market kept us from repairing. So even if Mart had wanted to go today, it would have been unbearable. We pictured him lying under the camper among broken bottles and trash, with people staggering past, half-empty beer cans in their hands. And today the grounds will be cleared.

And I don’t know how to hold on to this feeling without drowning in it. Because this is not just another missed chance. These are days that will never return. Days that could have been ours. Sunny. Relatively calm. Days when we could have taken Fannar into the forest, walked somewhere open, or simply stood in a quiet spot without concrete, without smoke, without all the things that make us more like people who have stopped living than people who still do.

What makes it even more painful is knowing it is heavy for Mart too. He is also trapped in this life, in this place, while once he had it together before he met me. He tries to survive by holding on to control, to planning, to the idea: I’ll do it on Sunday. While I, on the other hand, I keep trying to save the now. Again and again. Because I know that for Fannar only today counts. He doesn’t know we might go tomorrow. He only feels: not today. Not yesterday. And his life is short. His time is now.

Another day in bed. Three heads on one mattress. Again the sun touches the flat behind mum’s garden, but rarely us. Today Fannar can only take a few steps along parked cars and plastic bags tangled in the bushes. And when I think about how different life once was, how free and happy I used to run, something in me breaks. Then I feel like I’m failing enormously. Not out of unwillingness. But because everything weighs heavier when the space to choose has vanished at the very moment you need it most.

And then there is the postponed repair. The diesel tank that remains undone. Another week we cannot leave. Another week where I dodge my mother, plan around her routines, hold my breath until she’s gone. Another week where Fannar doesn’t get what he deserves. Another week that, if I’m honest, feels like it’s lost. Not only for us, but for him. And that is the worst part.

Because we are human. We can complain. Express. Write. He cannot. He only waits. He only feels. He only lives now. And that now slips away every day we say: “maybe tomorrow.”



I write this not to dramatize but to make visible what often remains invisible: how quickly days that could have mattered slip away, how heavy the weight of “maybe later” becomes when later keeps collapsing into never.