Episode 2: Digital Venom
766 Words
The screen went black. I didn't turn it off; it just timed out, the light fading away like a dying spark. I stayed there, sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at the reflection of my own face in the dark glass. I looked the same, but I felt fundamentally altered, like a piece of software that had just been hit with a virus.
“He’s not entirely wrong tho?”
The words looped in my head. They were worse than the boyfriend’s insults. The boyfriend was a stranger; his venom was expected. But her "lol"—that casual, breezy dismissal of every "ily" I’d ever sent—was the real kill shot. It was the sound of a foundation cracking.
I thought about the hours I’d spent crafting the perfect replies. I thought about the times I’d stayed up late just to make sure she wasn't lonely, only to realize I was the one sitting in an empty room while she was out at a cafe with a guy who thought I was "pathetic."
I picked the phone up again. My thumb hovered over the keyboard. A hundred different responses flooded my brain. “How could you say that?” “I thought we were close.” “I’m sorry, I’ll stop.”
But then, for the first time in my life, a new feeling rose up. It wasn't anger. It wasn't even sadness. It was a sudden, bone-deep detachment. It was the "ick." It was the realization that I had been playing a game where the rules were rigged against me, and I was finally tired of playing.
I didn't type a paragraph. I didn't defend myself. I didn't even send a dry "Okay."
I did something I’d never done before. I swiped up, closed the app, and turned off my notifications.
The silence that followed wasn't the lonely kind anymore. It was the silence of a construction site after the workers had walked off the job. I looked around my room. For months, this space had been a waiting room—a place where I sat and waited for the phone to buzz. Now, the room was just a room.
I stood up and walked to my desk. It was cluttered with old notebooks and half-finished projects I’d ignored because I was too busy being an "Architect" for someone else. I felt a strange surge of energy—a cold, sharp focus. If I wasn't going to spend my time building a bridge to a ghost, I had a lot of free time on my hands.
I opened my laptop. The glow was different from the phone—wider, more productive. I looked at a folder labeled Python Projects. I’d been working on a script to automate data entry, something boring but functional. I started typing code. The rhythmic click-clack of the keys replaced the thrum-thrum of the fan.
If input == "Sara":
print("Dormant")*
I deleted the line, a small smirk tugging at my lips.
An hour passed. Then two. My phone, lying face down on the bed, vibrated. The buzz was short. A single notification. My heart did a tiny, habitual jump, but I suppressed it. I didn't reach for it. I stayed focused on the screen.
Ten minutes later, it vibrated again. Then again.
The "Architect" in me wanted to check. The Architect wanted to see if she was apologizing, or if the boyfriend was sending more venom. But the version of me that was currently "Dormant" didn't care. The curiosity was there, but the need was gone.
I realized then that my attachment had been a habit, like a muscle memory. And like any habit, it could be broken.
I finally finished the script. I ran the code, watching the green text scroll down the terminal. It was perfect. It was logical. It did exactly what it was told to do, unlike people.
I walked over to the bed and picked up the phone. I didn't unlock it. I just looked at the lock screen.
3 New Messages from Sara.
I didn't feel the rush of excitement. I felt... bored. The idea of typing a reply felt like trying to lift a thousand-pound weight. The effort required to keep the "Architecture" standing was simply too high.
I slid the phone into my desk drawer and shut it.
“Let it stay dormant,” I thought.
I laid back on the bed and closed my eyes. For the first time in a long time, the silence of the house didn't feel empty. It felt like a clean slate.
- Writer
