Small Sounds

The velcro kept ripping—

six times, maybe seven.

That sound. That particular violence

of fabric tearing itself apart.

Someone's yellow gym bag.

Someone's carelessness or anger

or just someone needing things open

RIGHT NOW.

But the rest of us felt it spread.

That sound traveling through the locker room

like a contagion. Making everyone

more aware of their own frustration.

I could see it on other faces.

The tiny flinch. The jaw tightening.

Like that sound had exposed something—

not about the person with the yellow bag,

but about us. About how fragile

our patience is.

By the eighth time I wanted to say something.

Wanted to ask why they kept doing it.

Wanted to know if they were angry at the bag

or just angry, period.

But I didn't. Just stood there

and felt my mood darken

with every rip.

That's the thing about small sounds—

they're honest. They show you exactly

where you are.

And I was somewhere dark.

Somewhere that yellow bag and its ripping velcro

could follow me right back home.