Every Friday around 7 AM, I hear my mom’s second alarm (second, because she ignored the first one at 6:45), and then the kitchen fills with the click of a kettle. Later came traffic reports, murmurs about last night’s sleep, passing remarks about coffee. It all feels ordinary until, sometimes, it’s not. Until sometimes, an offhand remark about how the rain draws out a memory–someone’s loss, someone’s hope. These small exchanges become windows cracked open, letting in glimpses of lives quietly lived.

 

          Small talk is actually deep, and deep talk is actually small. We think “deep conversations” are the ones that tackle life’s greatest mysteries head-on, like philosophy debates in dim-lit rooms or midnight heart-to-hearts about existence and mortality. But often, these discussions echo with rehearsed wisdom, their familiarity worn in by repetition. The “supposed” depth becomes shallow and performative, giving a sense of comfort that’s memorized.

 

          Meanwhile, every Friday morning lies vulnerability. Asking someone “How’s work?” might reveal their exhaustion from a late shift, a strained family dynamic at home, or dreams gone away for another paycheck. There’s depth exactly because no one is performing; these truths slip out unintentionally, honestly, and quietly.

 

           Connection doesn’t wait for grand declarations or philosophical revelations. It sneaks in between comments about the weather, in gentle inquiries about weekends, in casual exchanges at bus stops. The secret is curiosity. Not the loud kind that shouts questions, but the quiet and patient kind that listens for answers hidden beneath the ordinary.

 

          We find meaning not because conversations are deep or shallow, but because they’re real. Genuine depth isn’t a matter of topic, but a matter of sincerity. The simplest question can become a lifeline thrown into someone else’s world. It’s not about changing the world in a single profound conversation; it’s about quietly understanding it, one small exchange at a time.

 

          Next Friday, the alarm will buzz, the rain might come back, and someone will still ask, “Coffee?” That’s more than small talk. It’s the world, quietly saying good morning.