At the end of the day, someone asks:
What’s for dinner?
It sounds like a small question.
Ordinary. Practical.
But what I’m met with next is rarely hunger.
It’s options.
Or preferences.
Or silence.
Sometimes it’s:
“I don’t know.”
Sometimes:
“Whatever.”
Sometimes:
“Well, not that.”
And sometimes—most efficiently—it’s idc.
Three letters.
Lowercase.
Final.
Not resistance.
Not disagreement.
Just withdrawal.
On the surface, indifference looks like ease.
Flexible. Low-demand. Easygoing.
But inside, it feels like being handed a wheel
without being told whether anyone else is in the car.
A decision would be simple.
Pizza. Pasta. Leftovers. Done.
A choice would be shared.
What kind of night are we having?
What do we need to feel held?
Indifference does something else.
It withholds preference
without releasing responsibility.
It says, I don’t want to carry the weight of consequence
—but it also doesn’t say, I trust you to carry it for us.
So the question doesn’t disappear.
It just becomes heavier.
I’ve noticed my exhaustion doesn’t come from cooking.
It comes from carrying consequence alone—
without knowing whether anyone else is aware
that consequence exists.
What’s interesting is that indifference doesn’t usually start there.
It often starts as “I don’t know.”
“I don’t know” is an open posture.
It means I haven’t experienced this yet.
I’m still forming taste.
There’s room for discovery.
And often, when experience is possible,
“I don’t know” becomes preference.
I try it.
I feel it.
I learn something about myself.
But there are other questions—
questions where experience isn’t really available.
Will my preference matter here?
Will choosing differently cost me safety or belonging?
Will caring change anything at all?
When curiosity has no path to experience,
“I don’t know” becomes tiring.
So the posture adapts.
“I don’t care.”
Or more efficiently: idc.
Not because nothing matters.
But because caring without agency is corrosive.
“Idc” is indifference after it’s learned to be economical.
It’s the moment preference is withdrawn
to protect the self from repeated consequence
without authorship.
Indifference isn’t neutral.
It’s learned.
Many of us were shaped in environments where:
- preferences were dismissed
- needs were inconvenient
- decisions were made without explanation
- care was conditional on compliance
In those places, indifference becomes a way to stay connected
without risking rupture.
If I don’t want anything, I can’t be disappointed.
If I don’t choose, I can’t be blamed.
If I don’t care, I don’t have to carry what comes next.
But neutrality is never actually neutral in relationships.
It doesn’t remove the weight of choice.
It redistributes it.
Someone still has to imagine the evening.
Someone still has to feel the hunger.
Someone still has to risk being wrong.
Indifference simply ensures that it won’t be me.
In intimacy, indifference erodes agency—
not by opposing choice, but by leaving it unshared.
That’s not malicious.
It’s adaptive.
But over time, the one who keeps deciding
begins to shrink their own desire.
Not out of generosity.
Out of exhaustion.
They stop asking what they want.
They start asking what will cause the least friction.
They become efficient.
Capable.
And quietly less alive.
This is how agency erodes without conflict.
So when I’m asked, “What’s for dinner?”
I’m starting to hear a deeper invitation beneath the surface.
Not: What should we eat?
But: Who’s willing to choose with me?
Who’s willing to risk preference?
Who’s willing to care out loud tonight?
Some evenings, the most generous thing I can do is decide.
Other evenings, the bravest thing I can do is pause
and return the question gently.
Not as accusation.
But as invitation.
Because the opposite of indifference isn’t control.
It’s shared authorship.
And the opposite of exhaustion isn’t rest alone—
it’s knowing you don’t have to carry consequence by yourself.
A spark to-go:
Indifference doesn’t remove the weight of choice.
It decides who carries it.