Rain taps the window like
a stranger asking to come
in. He's on his third
pass through the same app
— scroll, refresh,
scroll — the feed a
river of faces he
doesn't know. The lamp
buzzes low, a mosquito
drone against the
silence. His coffee has
gone cold, a brown ring
staining the mug like a
promise kept too long.
He switches to the
camera, flips it, stares
at his own reflection.
Dark circles, a stubble
shadow, eyes that look
for something in the
dark. The front camera
makes everything softer,
kinder than truth. He
takes a photo, deletes
it immediately. Then
another. Deletes.
The notification bar is
empty. The world is
asleep, and he is its
only lighthouse, burning
for no one. He turns
the ringer off, sets the
phone face-down on the
nightstand. The rain
keeps talking. He
listens.
The static hums a lullaby only he can hear.