Je m’en fous —not as a wall, but as a door.
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. je m en fous
“That’s rough,” Jean said. And for the first time, he said it without trying to fix it. Without offering solutions, or sympathy he didn’t feel, or a pat on the back. He just sat there, letting the man’s grief be a thing that existed, like the cloud above them or the crack in the sidewalk. Je m’en fous —not as a wall, but as a door
It wasn’t rebellion. It wasn’t courage. It was exhaustion so pure it felt like silence after a gunshot. He cared so much that his shoulders were