Bracing for a Notification

It starts with something small and almost embarrassing: a screen, a thread,

a tiny blue check mark that doesn't move. You're standing in the kitchen with

the fridge door open, not because you're hungry, but because the

cold air gives you something real to focus on. Your coffee has gone lukewarm.

Your hand keeps drifting back to your phone like it's muscle memory, like your nervous

system thinks it's on-call. You tell yourself you're just checking the time,

but you're checking them not even for love, not even for a reply, for proof,

for a signal. For a sign that you didn't imagine the distance, and the honest part,