She wakes up in the morning. He is still asleep, covered in blankets, warm, far, quiet. He will not wake for many hours more.

But that’s okay.

She dares to place a hand on his arm. He moves. He shifts. He’s alive.

She gets out of bed. Gets ready. Shower, clothes, teeth, breakfast. She eats alone, the sun is gray. The birds sound lonely in their calls, their songs. She feels like bursting into song herself. She does not.

Keys, bag, phone. She heads out. Her neighbors greet her, but she can’t hear the words. She waves nonetheless. She gets in her car, starts it, and listens to it rumble before letting herself fly. Every window is open. It’s frigid cold and the road noise is deafening. She enjoys it.

The wind whips at her, the cars cry beside her. Its cacophony isn’t pleasant, not music, but not horrible. It did not make her ears bleed, her gut scorch, or her throat die. It was nothing.

She arrives at work. She’s there for eight hours, her mind unthinking, her heart unfeeling, her skin lukewarm. Her fingers clack, or is it the keyboard? She asks herself, as she does almost everyday, what life would be like apart from technology. She fails to arrive at a conclusion. She does not consider running away. She knows that she will cry if she ever does.

It’s almost sunset when she’s in her car again. She hasn’t checked her phone since waking up. She does so now. The waterfall of notifications puts a smile on her face. Her cheeks are shocked, unready for it. Her mildly chapped lips split as they lift up. A painful smile.

The messages are so loud, a voice she rarely hears.

She scrolls through, taking care as she reads each one. The parking lot is quiet and empty. She sits alone. The sky grows darker. The car seat is cold, uncomfortable, but unknown. In this moment, as the many moments of the many days before had, the only things that existed were her and the many little messages from her phone.

But the messages were not endless. She takes out her keys, and is on the road again.

She arrives back at home and it is already night. The moon cannot be seen from behind the clouds. Nor the stars. But the night still smells of peace and calm, the sounds quiet and bright, and she stands in her driveway for several minutes.

When she walks back into her home, it isn’t how she left it. There is no dust, no dirt, no grime. Her plants are in different places, her pots and dishes unwashed, and the yard… well, the yard is how it always is. Entirely untended to.

Food waited for her in the fridge. When she is done eating, she goes to the bedroom. She changes her clothes. It is empty, dark, and lonely. She misses him, and he’s just in the next room.

The door creaks as she opens it. Bright white light pours in. He sits at his computer, intensely focused. The clacking of his keyboard is loud, unending, and yet his face, so calm. So quiet.

It’s been all day. She wants to see him. She wants to hear him. She wants to hold him. She wants to be held.

She taps him on the shoulder. He glances at her. Stares at her. Then returns to his work. This is all she gets. In some ways, it’s enough. The sight of his eyes, that small smile when he finds her standing behind him. It was enough. It usually is.

“I’m home,” she whispers.