Crumbs and Other Small Things

Dan's fingers hovered over the keyboard, feeling the grit of leftover crumbs under his skin. As he brushed them away, using the sleeve of his worn-out jumper, he remembered how his mother chided him because of his messy desk at home. That small gesture carried a personal history, echoing nights spent half-awake, scrawling dreams into a notebook. He was acutely aware of an unease threading through his muscles, a subtle tensing of his shoulders that he ignored in a flash. He didn't care if the crumbs were from the flapjack he ate at noon or the crisps from earlier. His stomach twisted, that same hollow, tight, nagging sensation. It wasn't quite pain, nor was it hunger. Just a need.

The office hummed in a quiet, post-lunch lull. Phones clicked, the radiator clunked. Outside, Glasgow sat under its usual gray sky. December rain streaked the windows.

He took another biscuit out of the drawer, Digestives. Chewing slowly, steadily, the rhythm of his jaw worked for him. It helped calm the chaos in his chest, as if each bite was soothing the cortisol coursing through his veins.

Dan wasn't fat or thin. He just always ate. His colleagues joked—Liam from Finance once called him the human snack drawer.

Dan laughed along with them, relieved at not being different, although a part of him was cringing inside.

Nobody knew that the eating wasn’t about food.

He woke up hungry.

It wasn't the kind of hunger to do with having missed breakfast. The hunger was deeper, gnawing and aching like a hole behind his ribs. The room felt cold, a chill spreading from the window. Dan's throat tightened slightly, a physical reminder of the emptiness he was feeling. His skin prickled with a slight sweat, as if attempting to remind him that he was alive, marking the point of his vulnerability for this night. He lay there, staring into the darkness, hoping it would pass.

He checked the time. 3:48 a.m.

He lay there, hoping the feeling would pass. When it wouldn't, he got up, the city's hush pressing in as he moved through the silent flat toward the kitchen.

Barefoot, he crossed the cold floor and opened the fridge: hummus, grated cheese, half a bag of spinach, leftover curry. He closed it, turned to the cupboard, and reached for cereal. He ate Weetabix dry from the box, one after another, crunching slowly.

With each bite, he felt a little more there. Outside, the city was unusually silent, with no sirens slicing through the night. The noise in his mind—email alerts, unfinished reports, forgotten messages, unread group chats, calendar pings, bank overdraft notices—faded a little. Food was the only thing that stayed quiet.

He sat at the kitchen table with the three Weetabix in him and a glass of water, staring into space. His jaw ached a little. His heart felt quieter.

Dan worked in marketing.

Primarily, it meant meetings about things no one cared about. He wrote taglines for ads that no one remembered. He promoted products no one needed.

He once wanted to do something creative: he attended university for media, shot film with a camera, edited short videos, and wished to write screenplays. Something human. Something real.

Now he wrote email subject lines like "Last Chance to Save on Socks!"

Most days, he didn't mind. He could distract himself with tasks. But on some days, after finishing another round of hollow work, he felt raw and depleted. On those days, the thought of his creative dreams—writing screenplays, capturing the world through his camera lens—seeped through the cracks. He wondered about what he was losing by staying still, potential slowly slipping away like time closed behind office doors.

He had started tracking it—his eating. Not for weight or health, but just to see. Just to understand.

Tuesday:

8:00 AM - Protein bar and coffee

10:15 AM – Croissant from the bakery; walked an extra 5 minutes to get it

12:30 PM – Lunch: panini and soup

1:10 PM - Biscuit (office)

2:00 PM - Second biscuit

2:45 PM - Chocolate square

5:00 PM – Packet of crisps (train)

7:00 PM - Takeaway curry (large)

9:30 PM – Ice cream (directly from the tub)

11:00 PM - Toast with peanut butter

3:48 AM – Weetabix dry

He wasn't gaining weight. But still, he was not losing it. The real problem wasn't the food itself.

Dan felt nothing when he wasn't eating. This had followed him through quiet afternoons, joining moments to each other through the blur of workdays. Sometimes, Dan wondered if it was some kind of grief for lost aspirations or even shame for the path not taken. Other times, the feeling was a stark, implacable numbness.

One Friday afternoon, after a brutal client call and a string of rejections, Dan was simmering with frustration. He glanced at his colleagues, still tethered to their screens, and a rogue thought flickered in his mind—emails be damned. In that moment of rebellion, he stood up from his desk without a word and walked out, letting the day slip behind him.

The rain felt familiar. Glasgow's sky was iron-grey, and the buildings were slick and dark. He walked without a plan until he reached a bakery that he liked: tiny, on a side street, with soft yellow lights and steamed-up windows.

The inside smelled of warm sugar and yeast.

Dan bought two cinnamon buns: one for now, one for later. He sat by the window, unwrapped the first, and took a bite.

Sweet, warm, sticky. The dough collapsed in his mouth.

His chest eased, just a little. The sweetness softened the ache inside him, replacing it, for a moment, with warmth. He felt a ripple of warmth spread through his body as the stranger opposite him caught his eye and smiled. It was a brief moment, but it held a soothing power, deeper than the sugar. Opposite him, a woman sat alone, eating a single scone slowly. She looked up at him for a second and smiled. He nodded back. That was all. But it stayed with him, that small, human moment. A glance that said: Yeah. I get it.

He did not finish the second bun. This time, he could leave something behind—no urge to chase the last bite.

That night, his sister called. He almost didn’t answer.

“Hey, stranger,” her voice came through, bright and teasing.

Dan rubbed his temple. "Hey. Sorry. Been—tired."

“You okay?”

He hesitated.

"I don't know, just stressed."

A pause. “Work?”

“Yeah, everything, I guess.”

She didn’t press. Just said, "I'm making soup. Want to come over Sunday?"

He blinked, taken aback by the invitation. For a moment, the thought of the company relieved the tightness in his chest.

Soup.

“I'd like that,” he said.

On Sunday, the scene shifted: Dan sat at his sister's kitchen table while her two kids argued about Lego and the dog snored by the radiator. A spoon clattered to the floor, followed by a child's exclamation of, "It's not fair!" She served thick lentil soup in mismatched bowls. Garlic, cumin, and stock filled the air, almost enough to make him cry.

They ate in that noisy, domestic hum.

Dan took another bowl. His sister smiled but said nothing.

“Thanks,” he muttered, spoon halfway to his mouth.

“For what?”

“For this. All of it.”

She didn't smile. Just reached out and touched his hand once, then went back to buttering bread.

The changes didn’t come about all at once. They weren’t dramatic.

But Dan began to pause. Each pause was an act of will, a tentative step toward paying attention to himself. He would close his eyes for a brief moment and take a deep breath, sensing the air fill his lungs, then slowly release it, noting how his shoulders relaxed a little with the exhale. At other times, he would do a brief scan of his body, noting where he felt tension, acknowledging that tension, and then letting it go. These pauses became his way of grounding, the smallest ritual of reconnection to himself.

Sometimes, he would open the cupboard, stop, and ask himself, What am I feeling?

Not always, and not to stop himself, just to notice.

Sometimes the answer was boredom. Sometimes it was loneliness, or just a strange, unnamed numbness that dulled everything. It felt like a thick fog settling over his mind, a smothering blanket of static that muted emotions and thoughts alike.

One night, he cooked for himself. Not frozen food nor delivery, but real cooking.

A spicy and warm stew of chickpeas, topped with soft naan, and dollops of lemon yogurt.

He didn't glance at his cell phone. He played music, chopped slowly, and cooked with care.

He dined alone. For once in a very long while, the meal made him feel present, and the flavors grounded him in this moment. The chickpea stew was warm and spicy, the soft naan offering a crackle as he tore into it, releasing the lingering aroma of toasted bread that enveloped him. It was almost like being alive.

A month later, he was in Kelvingrove Park after work. The rain had stopped. The air was crisp, the sky orange with evening. His fingers were cold, but his stomach felt calm. He sat on a bench and opened a takeaway container. Roasted veg and couscous. Simple. Tasted good. He ate slowly, watched a dog chase leaves. And when he was full, really and unmistakably full, not just distracted or numb, he stopped. There was the faintest sound of a tram bell somewhere in the distance, echoing softly through the air, joined intermittently by the overhead cry of a gull. These subtle echoes highlighted the new quiet in Dan's mind. He leaned back and breathed in the cold air, filling the space that had been crowded with noise and distraction.

And for the first time in weeks, he found himself just sitting. Not thinking about food either, nor work, and not even the usual worries, which were quiet for once.

Just a moment.

Just now.