The diner was never particularly busy, but the lights were always on. Inside those walls, it felt like nothing could touch you, like the world was safe and predictable, I would sit wrapped in the familiar hum of the refrigerator and the soft glow of fluorescent lights. Some nights that was the only company I had, that and the occasional click of the clock. It was during one of these quiet nights, when the wind outside howled through the empty parking lot, that a man stumbled in, his face pale and his clothes covered in the dust of the desert.
He was dressed like any other tourist, flannel shirt, hiking boots, the usual gear, but there was something off about him. He slid into a booth by the window, his movements stiff and rehearsed, like he was barely holding himself together. I brought him a cup of coffee, and he took it with trembling hands, barely acknowledging me. He didn’t drink it right away, just stared out into the night beyond the glass, his fingers tapping nervously on the table.
For a long time, he didn’t speak, just sat there like he was trying to figure out where he was, or what had happened to him, maybe both. Finally, when he did speak, his voice was hoarse and strained, like it took everything he had to push the words out.
“I’ve done it before—do it every year, actually. Camping I mean. It’s supposed to be peaceful, just me and the great outdoors. But this time… this time was different.”
I didn’t interrupt, just nodded, letting him know I was listening. There was something in his expression and the way he clung to his mug of coffee that told me he needed to get this out, needed to make sense of it, even if I couldn’t help him.
“It was the second night,” he continued, his eyes distant. “I set up camp near this ridge, thought I’d get a good view of the sunrise. The stars were out—so many stars. I’d never seen them like that before, like they were alive, shimmering. But it wasn’t just that… it felt like they were watching me.”
He finally looked at me then, his gaze intense, searching for something I couldn’t give him. “You ever get the feeling you’re being watched? It was like that, only worse. The stars… they weren’t just stars. They were eyes. A million eyes, all staring down at me. I felt so small under them, like I didn’t belong there, like I was trespassing.”
I felt a chill run down my spine as he spoke, the unease in his voice settling into my own bones. He took a deep breath, his hands still shaking as he lifted the mug to his lips.
“I couldn’t stay in the tent.the darkness was oppressive, like the stars were closing in, surrounding me. So I got out, thought maybe if I walked around, I could shake the feeling. But the further I walked, The closer they seemed to get, they were too close, too bright.
He set the mug down, his fingers tracing the rim, as if grounding himself in the warmth. He took a shaky breath before continuing
“I tried to find my way back, But I must have gotten turned around, it felt like I was walking in circles. The stars—they were still watching me, It was like the wilderness had swallowed me.”
He fell silent again, his gaze drifting back to the window, as if the darkness outside held answers he couldn’t find. The diner around us felt almost too warm, too bright—the comforting hum of the fridge, the soft clink of dishes, the rich smell of coffee and fragrance of fried food. It was the familiar, the safe, the kind of place where nothing truly bad could happen. But out there, beyond the glass, was another world entirely.
“When I finally found the road,” he said, his voice quieter now, “it was like stepping out of one world and into another. The car was right where I left it, the highway stretching out in both directions like a lifeline. I got in, turned the key, and just… drove. I didn’t think about it, didn’t question it. I just needed to get back—back to something I understood, something solid.”
He looked around the diner then, taking in the cozy booths, the fluorescent lights humming softly overhead, the steam rising from his coffee cup. “It’s so… comfortable. We’ve built all this—these walls, these lights, this warmth—to keep the darkness out, to keep ourselves safe. But really there’s nothing like that. No walls, no warmth. Just the vastness of it all, and the cold, indifferent stars.”
He paused, his eyes distant, lost in that other world he’d barely escaped from. Out there, nature isn’t just beautiful or peaceful—it’s raw, and wild, and ancient. It doesn’t care about us, doesn’t even notice us. And when you’re alone in it, really alone… you realize just how small and fragile you really are.”
The man fell silent, staring down at his empty coffee cup as if the answers to his questions might be found in the dregs. After a moment, he pushed the cup away and stood up, leaving a few crumpled bills on the table.
“Thanks for the coffee,” he said, his voice flat, tired. “And… thanks for listening.”