I only came in for bread. The place was half‑empty. It was the kind of lull where the staff looked briefly feral with freedom before remembering they’re on camera. I took a basket even though I didn’t need one; it felt like the sort of day where you pretend you’re more organised than you are. The bakery aisle smelled faintly of disappointment and warm sugar, which is to say: exactly as expected. A man in a suit was staring at the reduced‑to‑clear shelf with the intensity of someone trying to negotiate a peace treaty between himself and his bank balance. He picked up a dented quiche, frowned at it, put it back, then repeated the whole sequence with a tub of hummus. I admired his commitment to indecision.

I found the bread. No, actually, the bread found me by being the only thing on the shelf that wasn’t brioche. I reached for it just as a woman with a pram manoeuvred past, muttering apologies to no one in particular. The baby stared at me with the flat, unblinking judgment of someone who has never paid rent. I nodded at it, as if to concede the point.

On the way to the tills, I passed a man comparing two brands of pasta sauce with the solemnity of a man choosing a headstone. He caught my eye, as if hoping for guidance, but I was in no position to advise anyone on anything. I gave him a polite half‑smile that said: we’re all doing our best, even when our best is objectively terrible. He seemed to understand.

At the self‑checkout, the machine insisted my bread was an “unexpected item,” which felt unnecessarily personal. I scanned it again, slower this time, as if demonstrating good faith. The machine relented. A small victory, but I took it.

Walking out with my single loaf, I felt faintly ridiculous, as if I’d just completed a quest that should have been beneath me but somehow wasn’t. The car park shimmered with that late‑afternoon light that makes everything look slightly more cinematic than it deserves. A trolley rolled past on its own, wheels rattling, heading nowhere with conviction. I watched it go, thinking it had the right idea.

I got in the car, placed the bread on the passenger seat like a peace offering, and sat for a moment before turning the key. The whole trip had taken twelve minutes. It felt like a chapter.