Alexa Daskalakis

The Shampoo

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November 9, 2025

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They wanted a reaction. All I gave them was: “I don’t know.”

 

There was a moment.
At the counter.
A question tossed out,
like bait.

“What shampoo do you use?”

Not because they wanted to know.
But because they wanted
to see.

See if I’d flinch.
See if I’d respond.
See if I’d reattach.

I didn’t.

I said,
“I don’t know. A friend uses it and likes it.”

No rise. No investment.
Not cold — just clear.

The question kept circling.
Repeated. Reworded.
Escalated into health, into hair, into heredity.
“We don’t do well with that,” she said,
like reciting family prophecy.

I nodded. Didn’t engage.
She watched my face.
There was nothing there.

Even the quiet one chimed in.
“I don’t remember that night.”
Translation:
Let it go. She’s not playing.

Someone else stood at the door,
waiting to be handed shampoo.
An adult. Silent.
Trained to receive.

I looked at him.
Said nothing.
He felt it.

They all did.

No one yelled.
No one cried.
But something died —
quietly, politely —
at that counter.

And when it did,
I didn’t mourn it.
I just walked by.

—

Sometimes the most devastating answer
is “I don’t know.”

Because it means:
I don’t care.
And worse —
I don’t need to.

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Legal Note:

This is a work of fiction inspired by emotional themes. Names, characters, settings, dialogue, and circumstances are entirely imaginary. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to real events, is purely coincidental and unintended.

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The Man Who Built with Smoke

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November 9, 2025

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A fable in three parts about illusion, clarity, and the quiet act of walking away.

 

Part I

There was once a man who built with smoke.

Not stone.
Not wood.
Just stories.

He drew them in the air with confident hands
and said, “Look what I’ve made.”

He never worried about the wind.
He said storms were for other men.

He called himself a builder.
A maker.
A name people should remember.

And because he said it often enough,
some did.

They wrote it down in pamphlets.
He handed those out like bricks.

But when someone leaned too close—
asked for blueprints, or support beams—
he would wave them off.

“It’s not that kind of structure,” he’d say.
“You have to feel it.”

And if it vanished overnight,
he’d say it was meant to.
“Some things are too rare to last.”

⸻

Part II

The woman stayed a while, curious but cautious.
She asked questions, gently at first.
“Where does the foundation sit?”
He said, “Beneath the clouds.”
She asked again, quieter, “But what holds it?”
He answered, “I do.”

He offered her a scroll—
faded ink, elaborate titles, no signatures.
“Proof,” he said.
She traced the dates with her finger.
The years folded over each other like fog.
Nothing quite touched the ground.

One night, a storm passed.
Nothing biblical—just wind.
And yet the great hall he claimed to have built
was gone by morning.
He said it had been “moved” for repairs.

When she asked to visit his workshop,
he pointed to the horizon and said,
“It’s best you don’t go that far. Trust ruins the magic.”

But she was no stranger to ruins.
She had walked cities no longer on maps.
And she knew the scent of burned paper
when she breathed it.

⸻

Part III

There came a morning when she stood alone
in the field where his castle was supposed to be.

No mist.
No smoke.
No scrolls.

Just quiet.

She waited, hand on her bag,
watching for him to return.

He did.
With a grin that said,
“Isn’t it marvelous?”

She tilted her head.
Looked past him.
Then said—calmly, finally—
“You carry this one yourself.”

And she turned.
Not in anger.
Not in grief.

But in the kind of silence
that can only follow
the end of a performance.

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The Years Will Know

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November 8, 2025

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The real cost wasn’t losing her — it was time proving she was right.

 

One day,
you’ll look in the mirror
and realize the punishment wasn’t loss —
it was time.

You’ll have everything
you once said you needed:
the calm,
the distance,
the tidy version of life.

And still,
some part of you will flinch
at the sound of my name —
not from pain,
but from recognition.

You’ll remember the way I saw you —
not better,
just fully —
and how unbearable
that became.

You’ll call it fate.
You’ll say it had to end.
But you’ll know:
it wasn’t fate.
It was fear.
And I was the proof
you weren’t ready
to be seen that clearly.

I won’t be angry.
I’ll be older —
not untouched,
but intact.

And time will keep
what it took from you:
me.