Alexa Daskalakis

Just Standing There

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There was once a man who went to the same bank every month
for over two decades, convinced he was building something.

He never made a deposit.
Never even opened an account.

But he brought the same envelope each time—blank inside, sealed tight—
convinced that the act of showing up was enough.

The tellers changed.
The carpet changed.
The logo changed.

But he stayed.
Waited in line.
Nodded politely.
Smiled when no one smiled back.

Sometimes he’d press his ear to the marble wall,
just to feel close to the vault.

He told himself the interest was accumulating anyway.
That loyalty meant something.
That someone, somewhere, was keeping track.

But no one was.

And by the time he finally asked to see the balance,
the bank didn’t recognize his name.

“Sir, we don’t have you on file.”

He laughed—thin and brittle.
“That’s impossible,” he said. “I’ve given you everything.”

She looked at the envelope in his hands—still sealed, still empty.

“No,” she said gently.
“You’ve just been standing here.”