Screen Time

The blue glow of his iPhone illuminated David's face at 3:47 AM. His thumb hovered over his boss's email—"URGENT: Q3 projections"—before he remembered: he'd quit yesterday. The freedom should have felt triumphant. Instead, it felt like stepping off a treadmill at full speed.

The vitamin bottle sat on his nightstand, B-complex for energy, D for mood, magnesium for sleep. He swallowed them dry, like he'd swallowed every demand from his career in corporate strategy. The supplements were his ritual of self-care, the way he proved he was taking care of himself while running himself into the ground.

At 4:30 AM, David found himself running through Chicago's empty streets. Running was the only time he felt anything other than the hollow cadence of a life that had become automated responses. He thought about Sarah, the way she'd looked at him over dinner. "You're not here, David. Even when you're here, you're checking your phone." She'd called him a zombie, walking dead in a three-piece suit. The word had stung because it was true.

The vitamin D was supposed to help with the bone-deep exhaustion, the moments where he'd catch his reflection and not recognize the man staring back. But pills couldn't fix what was fundamentally a spiritual problem, a soul hollowed by the pursuit of someone else's success.

David stopped running, leaning against a brick wall. His phone buzzed—a LinkedIn notification about "embracing the hustle." He didn't check it. For the first time in ten years, he didn't check it.

The sun was rising, painting the sky in bruised purples. A woman walked by with a golden retriever, both moving with unselfconscious joy David had forgotten existed. She smiled at him, and without thinking, he smiled back—a real one, surprised and terrifying.

His phone buzzed again. This time it was Sarah: "Coffee? I still have your sweatshirt."

David typed "Yes." Simple, direct, the way he used to be before he became someone who needed vitamin supplements to function, before he started checking his iPhone first thing every morning, before he forgot how to run toward something instead of just running away.

He began jogging home, the phone now silent in his pocket. The zombie was waking up, and for the first time in years, David was ready to feel whatever came next.