The Disconnection

The coiled **cable** behind his desk had always been a nervous thing, tangled like the knots in his stomach when he walked into work Monday morning. Marcus sat staring at it, the ethernet cord that had tethered him to this company for seven years, this department, this increasingly hollow version of himself.

His **iPhone** lit up again—another Slack notification from the channel that wouldn't stop buzzing even as everyone packed their boxes. 'Can we sync on the Q3 deliverables before you go?' from Jessica, who'd been "so sad to see you leave" in the conference room two hours ago. The performative grief of corporate layoffs wore everyone thin, and Marcus was tired of being its object.

He pulled his old **baseball** cap from the drawer—the worn blue one from college, before he'd learned that passion was something you negotiated away in exchange for stability and a 401k match. The hat had seen better days. So had he.

'You're really leaving without a backup plan?' his brother had asked over drinks last night. 'In this economy?'

Marcus hadn't known how to explain that staying felt like dying slowly. That the **baseball** games he used to love now just looked like men running in circles, and maybe he was tired of running too. That the emails and status updates and performance reviews had somehow replaced actual living.

He unplugged the cable. It lay there like a dead snake, harmless now.

His phone buzzed again—his mother this time. 'Call me when you can, sweetie.'

Marcus set the **iPhone** on the desk, face down, next to the box with his framed photos and the coffee mug that said 'WORLD'S OKAYEST PROGRAMMER.' The hat went on his head, pulled low. He picked up the box and walked out without looking back at the cable still coiled on the floor where his career used to be.

The sunlight hit him harder than expected outside. It was just Tuesday. He had nowhere to be. For the first time in seven years, his time belonged only to him. Marcus took a breath that felt like the first real one he'd taken in years, and started walking toward nothing in particular.