Ethan’s apartment is silent except for the low hum of his computer fan.
He sits hunched forward in the half-dark, the curtains drawn tight. The morning sun never makes it past the dust on the glass. He hasn’t shaved in weeks. His eyes are tired — not from lack of sleep, but from life itself.
This was not the plan.
A month ago, he lost his job — the only thing tethering him to some kind of purpose. The days since have blurred together, each one a little dimmer than the last. His savings are thinning like sand slipping through an hourglass. His parents have stopped calling after too many unanswered rings. Friends still message him — names flashing on his phone like little lifelines — but he can’t bring himself to grab hold.
What would he say? That he has no idea where he’s going? That the future is just a blank wall in his mind?
So instead, he turns to the one thing that never questions him: the screen.
The cycle begins early. He wakes, stares at the ceiling for an hour, then sits down in front of his computer. Tabs bloom one after another like weeds, the glow washing over him in an unchanging loop. Five times today already. Each time feels like the last. Each time, he whispers to himself, Just one more. But it’s never one more. Hours dissolve, slipping soundlessly into the void.
Between sessions, there’s silence — the kind that doesn’t just fill a room but presses against you. Shame seeps in like damp through the walls. His phone buzzes. Another message: Call me back, please. He doesn’t. He can’t. The thought of hearing another human voice feels unbearable. He turns up the volume on his headphones, drowning the world out with pixels and fantasy.
The more he watches, the less real life feels. The more he finishes, the more empty he becomes. His body aches, his mind fogs, and his heart — that once beat with small hopes and quiet dreams — is numb. The screen is both his escape hatch and his prison cell.
That night, something shifts. Maybe it’s the way the air feels too heavy to breathe, or maybe it’s the reflection of himself caught in the monitor’s dark corners. He starts deleting — every file, every bookmark, every trace of the habit. But each time a folder disappears, another springs up in its place. New. Final. Just One. His pulse spikes. He deletes faster, frantic, but the folders multiply like a virus.
Then — black. The screen dies.
For a moment, all he sees is his own reflection, hollow-eyed and pale. This is what’s left of him. This is where all the days have gone.
Something breaks.
Ethan shoves the chair back, stands, and yanks the plug from the wall. Silence. His breathing is ragged, his hands trembling. For the first time in months, he doesn’t sit back down.
Morning comes. Pale light slips past the curtains, brushing his face. He sits on the edge of the bed, phone in hand. His thumb hovers over Mom. He’s terrified — not of her judgment, but of saying the words aloud.
He presses Call.
"Hello?" Her voice is soft, cautious.
"I… I need help."
It’s not victory. Not even close. But for the first time in a long time, the day doesn’t feel already lost.
Day 1.
