“The Seeds Under the Mattress”
It started as one of those quiet afternoons meant for catching up on neglected chores. I stripped the bed, gathered the laundry, and flipped the mattress to let it breathe.
Then, just as I lifted one corner, I saw them — a cluster of small, dark grains lined perfectly along the seam.
For a heartbeat, I froze. They looked too precise to be dust, too glossy to be crumbs. A chill crept through me. Insect eggs, my mind whispered. My skin tingled with imagined itches.
I leaned closer, pulse quickening, and brushed a few onto a sheet of paper. They were firm and dry — not sticky or alive — yet my mind refused peace. I took photos, opened my phone, and fell into a spiral of frantic searching.
Coffee grounds. Termite droppings. Beetle eggs. Black mold spores. Every result made my fear bloom larger. How could something so small take up so much space inside my thoughts?
Hours passed before I stumbled across an image that stopped me — tiny round seeds, the kind that cling to shoes after a walk in the garden. I held my sample up to the light. Same shape, same sheen. Suddenly, the entire storm inside me broke into laughter.
They weren’t eggs. They weren’t droppings. Just seeds — harmless little travelers that had somehow hitched a ride indoors.
Relief washed over me, but so did realization. My panic had been built entirely out of shadows — assumptions that rushed to fill the space where truth hadn’t yet arrived. All it took to end the fear was a little light, a little patience, and the courage to look closely.
That moment never left me. Because life is full of hidden seams where the mind mistakes uncertainty for danger. We suffer not from what is, but from what we imagine might be.
Now, whenever I clean, I still peek under the mattress. But not in fear. In curiosity. A small act of remembrance that not every mystery conceals a threat — some simply hold a lesson.
And sometimes, the lesson is this: when you pause before reacting, truth has a chance to catch up to you.
