Digital Sunset

The glow of her iPhone illuminated Maya's face in the otherwise dark apartment, casting ghostly shadows across the walls. She hadn't spoken to another human being in four days. Her cat, Bast, wound around her ankles, demanding attention she couldn't muster to give.

"You're lucky," Maya whispered, scratching behind Bast's ears. "You don't have to pretend everything's fine on Instagram."

She'd been taking vitamin D supplements for months—doctor's orders for someone who rarely saw actual sunlight. The bottle sat on her counter, a daily reminder of her isolated existence. Work from home had slowly morphed into live at work, exist alone.

Her phone buzzed. Another notification from LinkedIn: "Congratulations to colleagues on their work anniversaries!" Maya's thumb hovered over the screen. She used to care about these things. Used to believe that climbing the corporate ladder would fill the hollow spaces inside her.

Three years ago, she'd stood in this same apartment with Daniel. He'd held her palm against his cheek, promised her that their love was stronger than any ambition either of them possessed. She'd chosen the promotion. He'd chosen someone who chose him back.

Now, at 2 AM, Maya found herself watching stories of people she barely knew—former classmates posting about engagements, promotions, vacations she'd never take. Each swipe was another hit of synthetic connection, a digital vitamin supplement for her starved emotional needs.

Bast jumped onto the windowsill, meowing at something outside. Maya finally looked up from her screen. The moon hung low and full over the city.

She set down the phone. The apartment felt suddenly quiet, oppressive in its silence. But as she stood by the window, the cat pressing against her leg, Maya realized something profound: she'd been waiting for life to happen to her, scrolling through other people's moments while hers passed by.

Her palm pressed against the cold glass. Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow she'd walk outside. She'd call her mother. She'd apply for that transfer to a smaller city—somewhere where people still looked each other in the eye.

For tonight, though, she simply stood there, letting the moonlight wash over her face, and for the first time in months, she didn't reach for her phone.