The Borrowed Feelings Store

The line at the Borrowed Feelings Store wrapped around the block, but no one seemed bothered. People waited patiently, holding their empty jars, tapping their feet, checking their watches. A woman behind me hummed softly, the kind of tune someone uses to keep their hands warm.

It was colder than usual, but no one mentioned it.

Inside, the fluorescent lights flickered the way walways did. Te clerk at Window Three was handing out small doses of Determination, carefully spooning it into jars like honey. The man receiving it nodded gratefully, screwed the lid tight, and walked away with a steadiness he hadn't had when he arrived.

Nothing unusual.

I stepped forward when it was my turn. The clerk didn't look up, just asked the standard question.

"Returning or requesting?"

"Returning," I said, placing the jar on the counter.

He held it up to the light. "You barely used any of it."

"I didn't need it," I said.

He shrugged. "Happens."

He poured the unused Calm back into a larger container, labeled it, and slid my empty jar toward me. I wiped the rim with my sleeve. The glass felt warmer than it should have, but no one else reacted, so I didn't either.

"Anything else today?" he asked.

"I think I need something for the afternoon."

"We're low on joy, but we have plenty of Mild Optimism."

"That's fine."

He filled the jar halfway. "Don't take more than two spoonfuls at once.

"I know."

Everyone know. Everyone followed the rules. Everyone acted like this was the most ordinary thing in the world.

On my way out, I passed a little girl sitting on the floor, her jar open in her lap. Her mother scolded her gently.

"You can't split that, sweetheart. It's expensive."

The girl nodded, though her eyes were glassy. She looked like she was bout to cry, but children cried all the time when they borrowed too much Sadness. Nothing strange.

I kept walking.

At home, I set the jar on the kitchen table. The house was quiet, except for the faint hum coming from the walls. It had been doing that for weeks. A vibration, almost like breathing. I'd asked my neighbor once if she heard it too, and she said "Of course. Old houses do that." So I stopped thinking about it.

I opened the jar of Mild Optimism and took a small spoonful. It tasted metallic, like it always did. A warmth spread though my chest, soft and manageable.

Then, without warning, something else rose inside me.

A feeling I hadn't borrowed. A feeling no one had given me. A feeling that didn't belong to anyone I knew.

It was sharp, bright, and unfamiliar -like grief wearing someone else's shoes.

I sat down, gripping the edge of the table. My breath hitched. The sensation grew, swelling until it pressed against my ribs.

I waited for it to fade.

It didn't.

I tried distracting myself -washing dishes, folding laundry, rearranging the jars in the cupboard- but the feeling stayed. It pulsed, steady and warm, like a heartbeat that wasn't mine.

When the neighbor knocked to return the cup of patience she'd borrowed last week, I almost didn't answer. But she'd hear the hum from the hallway, and people always commented on that.

She handed me the jar with a smile. "Didn't use much."

"No problem," I said, though my hands were trembling.

She didn't notice. Or maybe she did and chose not to.

People were polite like that.

That night, I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling. The unfamiliar feeling pulsed inside me, steady and insistent. I tried to match it to something on the Store's list -Regret, Nostalgia, Anticipation, Dread- but wasn't any of those.

It wasn't anything.

It was new.

I pressed my hand to my chest, as if I could push it back out, return it, label it, categorize it, place it neatly on a shelf where it belonged.

But it stayed.

In the morning, I went back to the Borrowed Feelings Store. The line was even longer than yesterday. People chatted casually, comparing jars, discussing weekend plans, complaining about the weather.

No one looked distressed. No one looked confused. No one looked like they were carrying something that didn't belong to them.

When I reached the counter, the same clerk greeted me with the same tired smile.

"Returning or requesting?"

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

"I... I think something's wrong," I said quietly.

He blinked once, slowly. "Wrong?"

I nodded.

He waited.

I waited.

The people behind me shuffled their feet, impatient but polite.

Finally, he said, "Do you have your jar?"

I shook my head. "It's not in a jar."

He frowned, but only for a moment. "Well, if it's not in a jar, then it's not our store."

He stamped a form, handed it to me, and called, "Next!"

I stepped aside, staring at the paper in my hand. It as blank.

Completely blank.

I folded it carefully and slipped it into my pocked.

Everyone around me continued as usual -requesting, returning, borrowing, exchanging- moving through the day with practiced ease.

No one noticed the way my hands shook. No one noticed the way I held my breath. No one noticed the feeling inside me, growing heavier, brighter, more alive.

No one mentioned anything.

And neither did I.