My friends still work. Why do I feel out of step now?

One day I retired my donkey from carrying grain to the mill. Old habit, I still walked to the mill every morning, empty sack over my shoulder, and stood in line with the other men. The miller finally asked, "Hodja, you have no grain. Why do you queue?" I said, "I am not waiting for flour. I am waiting for the line to still need me." This is what happens when the people you love are still working and you are not. You keep showing up to the old line. You wait for the coffee break that no longer exists, the hallway chat, the shared deadline that used to be your common language. The sack is empty now. That is not a tragedy — it is just information. The ache you feel is not proof something is wrong with you. It is proof your friendships were built on proximity and task, and both just disappeared at once. That kind of friendship does not automatically become the other kind — the kind that meets on purpose, in daylight, for no reason but company. That has to be built. Nobody tells you this part.