She clicked on a WhatsApp tab—Sinjin’s account.

 

“Hmm…” Cosima rolled the cane around with a withered foot as she surveyed her boyfriend’s chats. Theta’s group chat was at the top, flooding with endless messages about useless fluff she glossed over. 

 

Her first subject was in sight.

 

Iris. 

 

She scoffed at the smiling, porcelain face in the profile picture before dipping into the privacy of the chat. 

 

“Hmm…” 

 

The most recent chat was a week old—just a bunch of art stuff she didn’t understand and wasn’t looking for. 

 

She scrolled up. Ten days ago. More art stuff.

 

She scrolled up. Fifteen days ago. Chatter with no substance.

 

She scrolled up. Fifth of October. The woman sent a birthday message to him. Harmless.

 

She scrolled up. Fifty-fifty certainty of no underlying issues. That didn’t do.

 

She scrolled up.

 

She scrolled up.

 

She scrolled up.

 

She scrolled up.

 

Her eyes scrolled up to the time; she had to move on.

 

Nothing much.

 

She clicked off the chat.

 

She scrolled down. Another subject.

 

Naomi. Oh, her.

 

She rolled her eyes over the profile picture and entered the chat.

 

She scrolled up. Stuff.

 

She scrolled up. Stuff.

 

She clicked off. Scoff.

 

Ok.

 

She scrolled down and down. Another.

 

Greta. Who’s she again?

 

She shunned the picture and slipped into the chat.

 

She scrolled up.

 

Scrolled up.

 

Scrolled up.

 

She clicked off. Mental thumbs up.

 

Down.

 

Lydia.

 

Chat clicked.

 

Up.

 

Up.

 

Up.

 

Down.

 

Mental thumbs down. Too hyper.

 

She pressed off.

 

Down.

 

Down.

 

Down.

 

Down.

 

Aaliyah.

 

Click.

 

Up.

 

Up.

 

Up.

 

Up.

 

Up.

 

Down.

 

Down.

 

Down.

 

Down.

 

Down.

 

Up.

 

Down.

 

Up.

 

Down.

 

She clicked off.

 

There were many other faceless people to check—so many she expected down further in the abyss that was Sinjin’s social life. 

 

But she scrolled to a limit—a phenomenon she didn’t used to think existed online.

 

Mom…

 

Her breath hitched as she noticed the account name written in Chinese with a red heart emoji next to it, feeling tense as sirens whirred in the distance. This was one of the few Chinese words she could read; it was enough of a marker that she had descended further than needed. She could keep scrolling further and further; there were still boxes to tick and time to kill. But even baring as much as a glance to the message with no blue ticks made her shudder and click off the tab to her dry account at a speed that blinded her as much as the screen.

 

But she couldn’t be blinded anymore. Artificial light was her life.

 

She stared at the time at the corner of the screen.

 

Near five-fifty. 

 

Once again, time was slow. Getting through every single day was a slog—a painful, everlasting poison. Even when she sat outside the comfort of the dark room, it simply meant that she had moved shelves—she had gotten nowhere. Until the last few days, she wouldn’t leave the shelf. She had nowhere to go. She had no schedule. She had no appointments to attend. She had nothing. 

 

It would be an aimless journey into the abyss. 

 

She hated aimlessness. She hated being left in the dark. She hated the unknown.

 

So, she had to stay sheltered until she could figure out a linear path to getting her life back. Or if something forced her out of this bind.

 

Until then, all she had left was too much time on her weak hands. And the Instagram tab nearby tempted her to no end.

 

She neared it. It was a new avenue. It was a new rabbit hole to fall through. It was a new world she knew inside and out.

 

It was infinite, just like her time. It was always a match made in heaven in a world that was hell.

 

So she’d indulge and keep falling into old habits. 

 

But a ping froze her. The volume icon appeared on one of the tabs before revealing that it was another WhatsApp tab—her tab. She stared at it as if it were alien.

 

That’s…

 

She scrolled to the top of Sinjin’s account, their private chat not being at the top of the list.

 

Sin didn’t text me. Who could…

 

She noticed herself slouch and straightened herself. 

 

“Right.” 

 

She whipped the mouse upwards, clicking the tab.

 

“Ah…” She dragged the sound, croaking as she read who the messenger turned out to be. She circled the pointer over the bolded message.

 

Theta.

 

Without looking at the message preview, she clicked and waited, the site going to a white screen and buffering. The lights even flickered.

 

Power fault.

 

She crossed her arms and patiently waited, taking her mind to the ceiling. The first time she had looked away from the PC since she turned it on.

 

Whenever she was online, it always felt like she was clicking and scrolling without much foresight. She couldn’t tell if she wanted to distract herself or not. She just saw mild satisfaction in the mindless act. Maybe she was the zombie she always believed she transformed into: a person with no direction or purpose. Even when some of the things she’d see online squeezed her heart, everything still felt equal. She’d scroll to no end, repeatedly encountering things that had no staying power in her mind unless they ridiculed her.

 

But, as the page loaded and the sirens rang louder beyond the apartment confines, she read words that stuck and were far from ridicule. Hell, the sentence itself was ridiculous—poor grammar, no greetings, and—to top it all off—a ludicrous idea.

 

But perhaps, maybe it was what she needed.

 

A lead. A nudge. A direction.

 

There was a chance she was just a moth to a flame, fluttering to a deadly light and light death. But the lights stopped flickering; there was certainty to follow. A brain with more industrial knowledge than her laid itself out to her.

 

It all felt crazy. But how long could she stay on the fence? How long could she stay on the shelf? How long could she stay fifty-fifty when the man’s message read:

 

‘yo wanna go skidrow with us?’