The Weight of Wires

Mara sat on the floor of her apartment at 2 AM, surrounded by a tangle of ethernet and HDMI cables she'd been meaning to organize since her divorce. The TV flickered with some late-night infomercial she wasn't watching, blue light washing over walls that still felt too empty despite six months passing.

Her cat, Bruno, a grouchy tabby she'd inherited from her mother, headbutted her ankle. He'd taken to sleeping in her ex-husband's pillow on the bed—a small betrayal that stung more than it should.

"I know," she whispered, scratching behind his ears. "I miss him too."

The phone buzzed. Her boss, again. Another crisis that couldn't wait until morning. She stared at the screen, that persistent little notification icon demanding her attention, tethering her to a job that paid well but had slowly hollowed her out from the inside.

She remembered the morning her father called to say the bear had broken into their garage back home. How he'd described it: the animal standing on its hind legs, claws against the metal door, this massive thing just trying to survive in a world that had no place for it anymore. She'd never seen her father sound so small.

That was three years ago. Her father was gone now. The bear was probably gone too.

Mara stood up, Bruno winding around her legs, and walked to the window. The city below hummed with thousands of lives she'd never touch, each one connected by invisible cables she couldn't see. She pressed her palm against the cold glass.

"Alright," she said to the empty room. "Alright."

She picked up the phone. Not to answer her boss. To call her sister instead. It was time. She was tired of bearing this alone.