Dead Pixels

Marcus stared at the blue light pulsing from his iPhone, 3:14 AM glowing like accusation. Another sleepless night. The vitamin D supplements sat on his nightstand, a承诺 he kept breaking to himself — take one daily, they said, for bone health, for mood, for something resembling life.

He swallowed one dry, thinking of Sarah. She'd left him three months ago with a text message: "You're already gone, aren't you?"

At work, nobody noticed the rot spreading. Marcus moved through the open-plan office like everyone else — coffee in hand, eyes glazed, responding to emails with automatic efficiency. They were all zombies really, professionally undead, trading hours for dollars, pretending to care about quarterly projections while their souls slowly atrophied. But Sarah had seen it first. She'd called it out over dinner one night, his eyes fixed on his phone even as she described her mother's stroke.

"You're not here," she'd said. "You're somewhere else, always."

The irony wasn't lost on him. He'd stayed connected digitally while disconnecting from everything that mattered. His iPhone held photos of their trip to Barcelona, her laugh captured in pixels, the way sunlight caught her hair. He swiped through them now, fingers trembling, wondering when exactly he'd become this — a creature who could watch memories without feeling them, who could exist without truly living.

The vitamin bottle mocked him. Health without life, maintenance without meaning.

Marcus opened his contacts. Scrolled to her name. His thumb hovered over the call button. Somewhere in this city, Sarah might be awake too. Or she might be sleeping beside someone who knew how to be present. His finger pressed down.

The phone rang once. Twice. Then her voicemail: "You know what to do."

He didn't leave a message. Just sat there as dawn crept through his window, another zombie greeting another day, iPhone clutched in hand, vitamin D dissolving in his stomach, waiting for something to change.