The Monday after felt like the morning after a party that was too loud.
Not because of alcohol. But because of hope.
Leni woke up before the alarm clock rang. That strange in-between feeling was there: a little pride, a little fear, a lot of reality.
Keks lay across her feet, pretending to be a particularly heavy argument against getting up.
“I know,” Leni murmured. “I also want to stay in bed and ignore social problems.”
The phone vibrated. Once. Twice. Ten times.
Messages. Missed calls. Push notifications.
“Your account is being reviewed.”
“Unusual activity detected.”
“Please observe our terms of use.”
Leni sat up. “Ah,” she said dryly. “There it is. The consequence.”
Jamal was already in the kitchen. Coffee. Two cups. A bad premonition.
“They don’t like it when you become visible,” he said.
“No,” said Leni. “They don’t like it when visibility is uncontrollable.”
Chaos reigned in the group chat.
“I’m blocked!”
“Only limited orders left!”
“Nothing for me – yet.”
Leni read everything. Slowly. Carefully. As if collecting evidence, not just feelings.
“This is subtle,” said Jamal. “No big announcement. No ban. Just… uncertainty.”
“Yes,” said Leni. “And uncertainty is cheap. It only costs us.”
She went out anyway. Not out of courage. Out of defiance. And because staying home suddenly felt like surrender.
The first delivery came late. Then not at all. Then after all.
“Your route has been adjusted,” said the app. “For your safety.”
Leni laughed loudly. On the street. Alone.
“You didn’t care about my safety yesterday,” she said into the void. “But today it’s part of the strategy.”
She delivered to a new development area. Everything looked the same. Gray. Clean. Quiet.
The customer opened the door just a crack. “Can you please put it there?”
Leni nodded. Did so.
“Thank you,” said the woman. “You never know.”
“True,” said Leni. “You really never know.”
Back on the bike she noticed how tense she was. Shoulders up. Breath shallow.
Keks lifted his head in the basket. He knew this state by now.
“You know,” Leni said quietly, “I used to think safety meant: enough money, enough orders, no blocking.”
Keks yawned.
“Now I believe,” she continued, “safety means knowing you don’t fall immediately when you become inconvenient.”
In the afternoon they met again. Same park. Fewer people. More seriousness.
“I’m scared,” someone said. Just like that.
No one laughed.
“Me too,” said Leni. “But I’m more afraid of pretending everything is okay again.”
It wasn’t about big actions. But about protection.
Legal advice. Contacts. Reserves. Emergency numbers.
“We need safety,” said Sara. “Not as a feature. But as a foundation.”
“And if we don’t get it?” someone asked.
“Then we build it ourselves,” said Jamal.
That sounded big. And at the same time very small.
In the evening Leni sat again on her sofa. Exhausted. Awake.
The phone lay beside her. Silent.
Keks laid his head on her belly. Heavy enough to hold her.
“I always thought,” Leni said quietly, “safety is something you achieve.”
She looked at the ceiling.
“Now I believe it’s something you have to defend.”
Outside a delivery driver passed by. Fast. Too fast.
Leni closed her eyes.
Tomorrow would be another day when she was supposed to function.
But today she had learned something:
Uncertainty is no accident. It is a tool. And tools can be named.
That didn’t make her safe immediately.
But it made her less silent.