I’m sitting in a dark, gloomy room, my back pressed against the wall and my legs stretched out in front of me. The only light comes from an old bedside lamp — the one with the wooden base and a lampshade that was once pure white but now glows a dull yellow, tinted by the warm orange of the bulb.
That soft orange light barely reaches the corners of the room. The only thing disturbing its stillness is my phone. It’s plugged in, trying to regain some battery after hours of endless scrolling. Every so often, a meaningless notification flashes across the screen, breaking the calm with a brief burst of white light that demands my attention.
In front of me, I can see the door, though half of it is hidden behind the bed that stands between us. The bed feels like a mountain, a wall, or an ocean I’d have to cross to reach freedom — to reach something better.
My oversized jumper feels heavy on my body, but it’s a comforting kind of weight, one that makes me feel safe. I want to get up, cross the bed, open the door, and finally start my day — to do all the things I keep dreaming of doing. But before I can move, my hand automatically reaches for my phone. It’s only charged to 45%.
I think about unplugging it anyway, but the thought fades quickly. What if I need it later? What if it dies halfway through the day, leaving me disconnected — unable to check the lives of strangers while I’m sitting on the toilet, scrolling away? That fear is enough to kill the spark of motivation.
So I stay where I am. I put the phone back down, waiting for it — and for myself — to be ready to leave these four walls.