Bartholomew Higgins, or Bart as everyone (eventually) called him, came into the world under a sweltering midday sun. His mom, a woman who collected coincidences like some people collect stamps, swore up and down that was the reason he was, well, relaxed. “Born needing a nap,” she’d say, shaking her head with a mixture of exasperation and a fondness that, if you looked close enough, you could just barely see. Bart? He took it as a sign from the universe. A permission slip, maybe.
School was… a thing that happened. Bart was there, physically, at least. He drifted through classrooms like one of those dust bunnies you see tumbling across the floor in an empty house, never really settling, never making an impression. Teachers, bless their hearts, tried. They really did. They’d try to light a fire under him, spark some interest in, gosh, anything. Ancient Rome? Nope. Algebra? Double nope. Bart’s inner world was less a fertile field waiting to be cultivated and more like one of those flat, empty deserts you see in old Westerns. Nothing much grew there. Or wanted to.
He found jobs that asked as little of him as he asked of them. He was a night watchman at the old textile factory, the one that had been closed for years, guarding absolutely nothing from absolutely no one. Then there was the ticket booth at the Bijou, that dusty old movie palace that mostly showed the same three movies on a loop. You could practically hear the celluloid creaking. Later, he did data entry, which, honestly, felt like translating the secrets of the universe into a language no one spoke, not even the computer. He wasn’t lazy, not exactly. It was more like… he saw the hamster wheel and thought, “Nah, I’m good.”
Love? Romance? That whole messy business? Bart treated it all like a spectator sport he wasn’t particularly interested in. He’d watch from the sidelines, a bemused look on his face. Women were drawn to him, at first. They liked his quiet, his stillness. Thought it was mysterious, you know? They’d try to pull him into their world, full of dinners and dates and that thing where you talk about your feelings. Bart would just smile that little half-smile of his and retreat further into himself, like a turtle pulling back into its shell. He was friendly, but there was always a distance. I mean, he wasn’t a jerk, he just was not into the grand drama of human connection. Eventually, they’d get the hint and wander off, shaking their heads. He never chased after them. Too much effort, probably. His relationships were like the little plastic bag the dry cleaning comes in: functional at first, but ultimately forgotten.
His folks… well, they tried too. For a while. But their hope for him kinda withered on the vine, turning into this quiet, sad acceptance. Friends? He had a few, here and there. They’d float into his orbit for a while, like those little planets around a sun that doesn’t give off much heat. They never stuck around too long, though. It wasn’t that Bart was mean or anything. It was just… hard to connect with someone who seemed to be living his life behind a thick pane of glass. He didn’t love, not really. Not his parents, not his almost-friends, not in that big, messy, all-consuming way you’re supposed to. I guess, for him love was just another thing the universe asked of you, like paying taxes, and Bart wasn’t into giving away that kind of tax.
Years went by. Decades, really. Bart’s life was a series of quiet routines. Wake up, eat something bland, go to work (if you could even call it that), come home, eat some more bland food, watch a little TV, and go to bed. Rinse and repeat. He was like a ghost in his own life, haunting the same few rooms, the same few streets. He wasn’t unhappy, not exactly. Just… indifferent. Like he was watching a movie of his own life and couldn’t be bothered to get invested in the plot.
His body started to give out, eventually. It wasn’t dramatic, just a slow, steady decline. Aches that wouldn’t go away, a tiredness that sunk deep into his bones. He shuffled more than walked. His face, once smooth and unlined, became a roadmap of wrinkles, each one a testament to a year spent not doing much of anything.
Then, one day, he just… didn’t wake up. They found him in his armchair, remote in hand, staring at the TV. The news was on, some crisis or another, the kind Bart never paid much attention to. He was gone. No fuss, no muss. Just… gone.
The funeral was small. A few relatives he hadn’t seen in years, a couple of people from the old jobs, his landlord. The pastor, a guy who’d never met Bart, said some nice things, the usual stuff about a life well-lived. It felt wrong, somehow. Like putting a bright red bow on a cardboard box. Bartholomew Higgins. A man who drifted through life like a tumbleweed in a ghost town. He didn’t leave much of a mark. No great loves, no great achievements, no great anything. He just… was. And then he wasn’t. Did he waste his life? I don’t know. Maybe. Or maybe he just saw something the rest of us didn’t. Maybe he understood that the whole rat race, the whole striving and yearning, was just a big, cosmic joke. And maybe, just maybe, his quiet, unassuming nothing of a life was the punchline. A life that was, in its own strange way, a quiet rebellion, a gentle refusal to play the game. Or maybe he was just a guy who liked to take it easy. Either way, he’s probably the only one who knows for sure, and he isn’t telling.

“Well… here we are.”
(Bart shifts slightly in his armchair, the creak of the old wood filling the silence.)
“I suppose this is the part where I’m supposed to say something profound. You know, sum it all up. My life, I mean. Put a nice little bow on it so everyone feels better about the whole thing. But, uh… I don’t really have bows. Never did. Bows are for people who care about wrapping things up neatly. Me? I just kinda let things be. Messy. Unfinished. That’s life, isn’t it? Messy. Unfinished.”
(He pauses, his eyes distant, as though watching a memory flicker on a screen only he can see.)
“I know what people think about me. I’ve seen the looks, heard the whispers. ‘What’s he doing with his life?’ ‘Why doesn’t he try harder?’ And my personal favorite: ‘Does he even care?’ Well, the truth is… I didn’t. Not in the way they wanted me to, anyway. I never saw the point in trying to be… someone else. Someone bigger. Better. More. I mean, what’s the prize at the end of all that? A plaque? A pat on the back? A few extra people at your funeral? Nah. I figured I’d just save myself the trouble and skip the whole song and dance.”
(He chuckles softly, a dry, rasping sound that fades almost as quickly as it begins.)
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying I had it all figured out. Far from it. I spent most of my life just… floating. Drifting from one day to the next. No big plans, no big dreams. Just… here. And you know what? It wasn’t so bad. Sure, there were times I wondered if I was missing something. Love, maybe. Or purpose. Or whatever it is that keeps other people running around like their hair’s on fire. But then I’d think about all the effort it would take to chase after those things, and I’d just… sit back down. The way I see it, the world’s got enough people chasing after stuff. It didn’t need me adding to the chaos.”
(He shifts again, his joints creaking almost as much as the chair beneath him. He winces slightly, but his expression softens, as if he’s made peace with the ache.)
“People always talk about leaving a mark. Like that’s the whole point of being here. To do something so big, so important, that the world can’t help but remember you. But honestly? I think that’s just ego talking. The world doesn’t need our marks. It’s got enough scars as it is. Me? I was happy just being a breeze. You know, something you feel for a moment, and then it’s gone. No big deal. No harm done.”
(He leans back, his gaze settling on the window, where the light is fading into a soft, golden glow.)
“I guess what I’m trying to say is… I didn’t live a big life. I didn’t love big or dream big or do any of those things they tell you you’re supposed to do. But I lived. Quietly. Simply. On my own terms. And maybe that’s enough. Or maybe it isn’t. I don’t know. And honestly? I don’t care. Because it’s done now. My story, such as it is, is written. And if it’s not the kind of story that gets told at dinner parties or written down in history books, well… so what? Not every story has to be.”
(For a moment, there’s silence. Then, almost as an afterthought, he adds:)
“If I had one piece of advice, though? It’s this: Don’t let anyone tell you how to live. Not your parents. Not your friends. Not society. Not even me. Especially not me. Just… do what makes sense to you. Even if it doesn’t make sense to anyone else. Because at the end of the day, you’re the one who has to live with it. Or not, I guess.”
(He smiles faintly, that familiar half-smile that never quite reaches his eyes.)
“Anyway… that’s all I’ve got. Take it or leave it. Makes no difference to me. But if you’re waiting for some big, life-changing revelation, you’re gonna be disappointed. Life’s not about revelations. It’s about moments. Little ones. Like this one. And now… this one’s over.”
(He leans back, his eyes closing, his breathing slow and steady. The room falls silent, save for the faint hum of the television in the background. And for a moment, it’s as if he’s already gone, a breeze that’s passed through, leaving nothing behind but the faintest trace of itself.)