Day 2 - Wake or Die

 

The sign on the cup said Wake or Die.

I read it standing outside the Parlour on Main, cold air on my face, coffee warming my hand. I'd ordered something different today — a latte with salted maple syrup. I don't know what I was expecting. It tasted like a mistake someone made on purpose. I'd never recommend it to anyone who doesn't like salt in their coffee. But I drank the whole thing anyway, because I'm in a season of trying things I'm not sure about, and it felt wrong to stop now.

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“After that, I went to class for leadership and management.”

The morning was ordinary in the way that ordinary things have started to feel heavy. A lecture on leadership and management. I sat in the back and half-listened, half-wondered whether the professor believed in what he was teaching or whether this subject existed the same way a lot of things exist — not because anyone needed it, but because it filled a slot on a form somewhere. I'd meant to leave after an hour. I stayed the full time. I don't know why. Inertia, maybe. Or just the knowledge that going somewhere else wouldn't feel any better.

After class, I met a friend. He had a driving test — I'd promised to come with him, to wait outside, to be there when it was done. It seemed like a small thing to offer.

The instructor failed him in ten minutes. Literally ten. Brought him back before they'd even covered fifteen percent of the route. The reason? He wasn't driving on the snow. On a Winnipeg winter road, on a day when every surface is white and packed and uncertain, the man failed my friend for not driving on the snow. I wanted to ask him — so you'd rather he crash? My friend stayed calm. He asked the instructor, politely, to explain each reason. The instructor couldn't answer a single one properly. Just stood there. Said nothing that made sense.

We sat together afterward at a table and talked about co-op, about applications, about what's supposed to happen next. Talking helped, a little. The way talking sometimes helps — not by solving anything, but by reminding you that at least one other person is inside the same fog.

I checked my email somewhere in the middle of that conversation.

Unfortunately, we won't be moving forward with your application.

I've been getting these for a while now. I've applied to a lot of places. Each one felt like the right move at the time — resume adjusted, cover letter thought through, sent. And then this. I sat with my phone in my hand and tried to locate the mistake. The thing I keep doing wrong. I couldn't find it. A friend said he'd help me look at it tomorrow, and I said yes, thank you, and meant it more than I could say out loud.

By the time I was walking home, the question was still sitting in my chest like something I'd swallowed wrong. What should I do. Not with urgency, not like a panic — just a low, persistent hum. A question that doesn't want an answer right now, it just wants to keep being asked.

Going home is complicated. There's a version of me that lives in that room — a quieter, smaller version, the one I was before I came here, before I tried to build something new. I know him too well. The comfort he offers is real, but it's the kind of comfort that costs you. You go in, and you stay in, and the days start to pass without you asking them to account for themselves.

I went home anyway. Locked the door. Sat with the doubt.

I don't have a resolution for this. Not tonight. But I wrote it down, and that's something. Some days, that's the only direction I can find — just keep the record. Keep showing up on the page, even when the rest of it isn't clear.

Tomorrow, a friend is coming to help. That's enough to hold onto.