Stillness has a price.

It just doesn't charge you all at once.

The morning arrived wrapped in softness—warm light, quiet greetings, chairs already set. The city had learned how to sit very well. People took their places without being asked, drifted into circles with practiced ease, spoke when prompted.

No one rushed.

No one pushed.

From the outside, it looked like healing.

From inside it felt like holding your breath for too long.

Arjun exhaled slowly beside me."Nothing's happening," he said.

"Yes," I replied."And something is being lost."

✦

The first cost showed up as absence.

The man who always stood near the transit stop—the one who carried extra water—wasn't there. Neither was the woman who used to redirect people quietly toward shade.

No announcement explained it.

They'd simply stopped coming.

Burnout, the facilitators would say.Rest, they would suggest.

The city accepted that explanation because it sounded kind.

✦

A facilitator opened the morning circle.

"Let's begin with grounding," she said softly."Notice your breath. Notice your body."

People closed their eyes.

Time passed.

Someone coughed faintly at the margins.

No one looked up.

✦

The missed ones sat farther back now—still present, still listening. They rarely spoke first. When they did, their stories had changed.

"I'm feeling overwhelmed," one said."I feel unseen," another offered.

Those statements were acknowledged warmly.

Needs that required immediacy—medicine, transport, intervention—were deferred until later conversations.

Later had become elastic.

✦

The other Ishaan aligned, voice low and precise.

Stillness trains patience, he said.But patience without relief becomes resignation.

✦

By midday, the city moved slower than ever.

Not inefficient.

Deliberate.

A woman dropped her bag again—same place as before, same soft spill of contents. This time, no one moved immediately. Eyes flicked to facilitators first.

A facilitator nodded.

Only then did someone kneel to help.

The delay was small.

The lesson was not.

✦

Arjun's voice tightened."They're learning to wait for permission to care."

"Yes," I said."And paying for it in seconds."

✦

The second cost arrived as misalignment.

People who needed action sat through conversations that didn't apply to them. People who wanted to help were redirected toward listening instead.

Energy pooled in the wrong places.

A volunteer whispered to me,"I feel like I'm always about to do something useful—and then I don't."

"That feeling is intentional," I said.

She blinked."It is?"

"Yes," I replied."It keeps you seated."

✦

Afternoon brought heat.

Not enough to be dangerous.

Enough to matter.

A man near the margins swayed—subtle, easy to miss. He sat down hard, breathing shallow.

A facilitator noticed—but didn't rush.

"Let's stay calm," she said gently."Can you tell me what you're feeling?"

The man tried to speak.

Couldn't.

Someone else stepped forward without waiting.

"Water," they said.

The facilitator hesitated—then nodded.

A bottle appeared.

Minutes passed.

The man recovered.

No incident.

But the pause stretched.

✦

The other Ishaan spoke softly.

Stillness extracts time, he said.And time is the first thing people in need run out of.

✦

By evening, the cost had compounded.

Small delays stacked.Hesitations overlapped.Conversations replaced responses.

Nothing broke.

But nothing moved quickly either.

✦

The girl sat beside me, arms wrapped around her knees.

"It's like we're waiting for permission to be human," she said.

"Yes," I replied."And calling it maturity."

✦

The facilitators noticed the fatigue.

They always do.

New language entered the space.

"Let's honor our limits.""It's okay not to fix everything.""Being present is enough."

Presence replaced action.

Acceptance replaced urgency.

✦

A familiar volunteer—the one who'd helped the fainting woman nights before—approached me late.

"I feel guilty," she said."For wanting to do more."

"That guilt is part of the cost," I said.

She nodded slowly."I thought sitting would help."

"It does," I replied."For power."

✦

As night fell, the city felt… heavy.

Not tense.

Weighted.

People lingered in chairs longer than needed. Conversations looped. Needs were postponed politely.

At the margins, the missed ones waited—longer, quieter, more practiced in not asking.

✦

Arjun spoke into the stillness.

"So what happens if we keep sitting?"

I looked at the city—the calm, the circles, the soft lights.

"We pay," I said."In time. In trust. In people who stop coming back."

✦

The other Ishaan aligned fully, voice steady and unflinching.

Stillness costs more than movement, he said.It just sends the bill later.

✦

The city slept that night calm and compliant.

But under the calm, something frayed.

Not loudly.

Irreversibly.

✦

The bill didn't arrive as a catastrophe.

It arrived as attrition.

By morning, fewer people showed up early. Not because they didn't care—but because nothing urgent ever seemed to happen anymore. The city had learned that arriving late didn't change outcomes.

Urgency had no reward.

Arjun noticed it immediately."The edges are emptier," he said.

"Yes," I replied."That's where the first losses always are."

✦

The missed ones drifted in later now—or not at all. Those who came sat quietly, already fluent in the language of waiting. They spoke softly, framed their needs as emotions, smiled when told we'll get there.

They were learning how to disappear politely.

The other Ishaan aligned, voice low.

Stillness teaches people how to minimize themselves, he said.So they don't disrupt calm.

✦

Midmorning brought a subtle crisis.

A delivery was late.

Not dangerously late.

Late enough that a few people went without what they needed for hours longer than expected.

No alarms sounded.No one rushed.

A facilitator explained gently,"These things happen."

People nodded.

What else was there to do?

✦

The second cost arrived as forgetting.

Names slipped.Stories blurred.Needs that weren't repeated faded from attention.

Care had become cyclical—focused on whoever spoke most recently, not whoever needed most urgently.

A woman whispered to me,"I think they forgot about my referral."

"How long ago?" I asked.

She shrugged."Yesterday? Maybe before that."

Time had flattened.

✦

Arjun clenched his jaw."This wouldn't have happened before."

"No," I said."Before, someone would've stood up."

✦

The facilitators sensed something slipping.

They always do.

They introduced another tool.

Reflection Journals.

People were encouraged to write instead of speak—to process privately. To slow down further.

Writing absorbed frustration without releasing it.

Pens replaced footsteps.

✦

By afternoon, exhaustion set in—not from action, but from waiting.

People slouched in chairs. Conversations thinned. Attention wandered.

Care became procedural.

A facilitator missed a raised hand.Then another.

No malice.

Just limits.

✦

The other Ishaan spoke, calm and exact.

Stillness consumes attention faster than action, he said.Because nothing sharpens focus like necessity.

✦

The breaking moment came quietly.

A boy—new, thin, nervous—stood at the edge of a circle clutching a crumpled note. He waited patiently. Then longer. Then longer still.

When he finally spoke, his voice barely carried.

"I'm supposed to meet my aunt," he said."She didn't come."

A facilitator nodded sympathetically."That must feel scary."

The boy nodded.

"We'll talk about that in a moment," she said.

The moment didn't come.

✦

I watched him wait.

Ten minutes.Twenty.

The note slipped from his hand.

No one noticed.

✦

I stood.

Not abruptly.

Deliberately.

The chairs made space without meaning to.

Arjun rose beside me.

So did the girl.

✦

The facilitator looked up, surprised.

"Is everything okay?" she asked gently.

"No," I said."And it hasn't been for a while."

Silence rippled—not tense, not shocked.

Expectant.

✦

The other Ishaan aligned fully.

This is the price, he said.And this is where it's paid.

✦

I walked to the boy and knelt.

"What's your aunt's name?" I asked.

He told me.

"Where were you supposed to meet?" I asked.

He pointed.

I stood and looked around.

"Who can help find her?" I asked—not to facilitators, not to authority.

To the city.

✦

Movement returned.

Someone stood.Someone else followed.A woman raised her hand and said, "I saw her earlier."

Phones came out—not for notes, but for calls.

Care reactivated itself.

Unscheduled.

Unapproved.

✦

The facilitator started to speak—then stopped.

She watched.

So did everyone else.

✦

Within minutes, the aunt was found—confused, frantic, relieved.

The boy ran to her.

No circle.

No reflection.

Just resolution.

✦

The city exhaled—not softly.

Audibly.

✦

The other Ishaan spoke, voice iron.

Stillness failed because need didn't wait, he said.

I nodded."And it never will."

✦

The facilitator approached me afterward, shaken but composed.

"That could've been dangerous," she said.

"It already was," I replied."You just couldn't feel it from the chair."

She didn't argue.

✦

People didn't sit back down immediately.

They hovered.Talked.Moved.

Standing returned—not defiant, but necessary.

✦

Arjun looked at me, eyes bright."They remembered."

"Yes," I said."Because the cost finally arrived where they could see it."

✦

The city didn't abandon care.

It reclaimed it.

Not loud.

Not unified.

But real.

✦

As evening fell, the circles thinned.

Chairs were pushed aside—not removed, just made optional.

Urgency re-entered the space.

So did consequence.

✦

The other Ishaan aligned one last time, voice steady.

Stillness costs lives in installments, he said.Movement saves them in moments.

I looked at the city—messier now, noisier, more alive.

"Yes," I said."And the bill has been delivered."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.