Wake up. Brush your teeth. Wash your face. Comb your hair. Pull on clothes that resemble an identity. Sit in traffic and do not think about it. Arrive. Swipe a badge. Pretend the day is a clean slate. Remember last night’s fleeting dream of floating above an endless queue. Forget it. Log in. Check messages. Do not question the routine. Watch the screen glow. You buy a shitcoin hoping your life will change.  Open a blank document. Type a greeting to no one in particular. Shift in your seat when the office HVAC kicks on. Think about lunch, then decide it can wait. Realize you need a password reset but hesitate, unsure which system needs updating. Scroll through unread messages. Notice a name you don’t recognize. Mark it as “important” without opening it. Finish half a report. Glance at the clock. Wonder if time has genuinely slowed or if you’ve simply forgotten how to concentrate. Hear a coworker laugh in the distance. You’re not sure whether to join in or keep working. Remember the last time you laughed at work. It was subdued, like holding your breath underwater. Check off another task. The software asks for feedback, so you click “excellent” and move on. Another meeting request appears. Accept by default. Pick up your phone, scroll through an app you don’t recall installing. Think about the nature of digital footprints. Look at your reflection in the dark screen. Blink, then place the phone face-down. Notice the light outside has shifted. Look for a window but only find more walls. Stand, then sit, repeating the motion as if it might create momentum. A voice from somewhere in the hallway mentions a deadline. You’re not sure if you’re part of that project or if you’re just meant to hear it. Straighten your posture. Straighten your desk. Straighten your thoughts. None of it makes you feel more prepared. Pack your things. Walk to the car. Start the engine. Stare at your reflection in the rearview mirror, noticing an expression you can’t name. Drive home, turning the radio on but not really listening. Imagine for a moment that you keep driving past your exit, but you don’t. Park. Enter your home. Brush your teeth. Fall asleep with your phone in hand. Dream of tasks left incomplete. Employed. Timesheet bound. Quietly unraveling. The alarm chimes. You turn it off without hitting snooze. Brush your teeth. Wash your face. Comb your hair. Pull on the same outfit or something close to it. You check your phone for urgent notifications—none. Pour coffee, drink it. Place the empty mug in the sink. Step into the car and drive. Traffic is slightly worse than yesterday. Arrive. Swipe your badge again. Log in, check the same list of emails. Notice the ones you left unread. Hover over them, then mark them as read without opening. Headphones on. Music plays quietly. Realize you don’t recall the last time you actually listened to the lyrics. Type a greeting in the team chat. Wait for a response that never comes. Open a new spreadsheet. A coworker walks by and mentions something about “updates.” You nod, uncertain what they mean. Update the software you forgot to install. Restart. Watch a loading screen. Scroll a newsfeed on your phone, half-aware of the headlines. Hold your breath for a moment, then exhale. Wait for the system to come back online. Return to the same tasks you tried to finish yesterday. Rearrange sentences. Adjust a few figures. Join a scheduled call. The voices sound like echoes in a corridor, drifting in from somewhere you’ll never visit. Realize you’ve stopped blinking. Force your eyes shut, then open them again. Think about lunch, decide to work through it instead. Check the clock. Check your portfolio. Power down. Shuffle to your car. Drive, listening to static because you forgot to switch the radio station. Think about what you would do with a million dollars. Pull into your driveway. Enter your home. Brush your teeth. Stare at your phone until the screen dims. Close your eyes. Dream of incomplete tasks carrying over yet another day. Employed. Timesheet bound. Quietly unraveling. The alarm rings at the same time. You turn it off, place the phone face down. Brush your teeth, wash your face, comb your hair. Decide on a slightly different shirt, but it looks the same as yesterday. Drink a cup of coffee with the same amount of cream and sugar. Leave the mug in the sink. Drive through traffic, watch the taillights blur into a slow-moving line. Arrive. Swipe the badge. Enter your password. Wait for the system to load. Answer a notification from HR about a new mandatory session. Glance at the breakroom, notice the same half-eaten donut from two days ago. Return to your desk. Open an email from a name you don’t recall, scan it, close it. No response required. Join a brief stand-up meeting. Keep your camera off. Listen to updates about tasks that sound vaguely familiar but do not directly involve you. Nod along, though no one can see you. Notice the chat box fill with neutral affirmations. Type “Sounds good” at an appropriate moment. Exit the call. Check the clock. Realize you skipped breakfast. Think about getting more coffee, but the machine in the breakroom is nearly empty. Decide water is enough. Scan your to-do list. Cross off one item. Add two more. Wonder if this ratio ever balances. Type a few sentences in a document you started last week. Delete half of them. Close out. Drive home, noticing a slight variation in the route due to roadwork. Sit at a red light, watch pedestrians hurry by. Arrive at your door. Set your keys down. Check your phone—no new messages. Brush your teeth. Go to bed, unsure if you’ll dream. Employed. Timesheet bound. Quietly unraveling. The alarm sounds a minute before you’re fully awake. You reach over, turn it off, and set the phone aside. Brush your teeth, wash your face, comb your hair. Notice a faint stain on your shirt, shrug, and put it on anyway. Brew a quick cup of coffee—two creams, two sugars. Sell a coin you bought last night. Step outside, navigate the same congested freeway. Watch brake lights flicker, feel no surprise. Arrive at the office. Swipe your badge, type in your password, wait for the desktop to load. A new email from a department you didn’t know existed appears in your inbox. Glance at the subject line: “Urgent: Policy Update.” Skim the content, see nothing urgent. Flag it, mark it as unread. Refresh your messages, find no new tasks. Ponder if you missed something but decide it can wait. Attend the daily stand-up. Camera off, mic off. Listen to brief status updates peppered with phrases like “action items” and “rollover tasks.” There’s a pause for questions. None come. You wait for someone to say goodbye, but the screen goes dark instead. Check the chat box, see one lonely thumbs-up emoji. Exit the call without comment. Scan your to-do list. One item marked “high priority,” though you’re not sure who assigned it. Open the relevant document, stare at it, add a sentence and delete it. Look at the breakroom camera feed (a new corporate feature) and see nobody there. Think about grabbing a snack, decide you aren’t hungry. Set a reminder to revisit the high-priority task tomorrow. Power down your system. Drive home, noticing a new detour sign that forces you a few blocks off your usual route. Watch pedestrians cross at the light, barely glancing at the traffic. Arrive at your door, set your keys on the table. No new notifications on your phone. Brush your teeth. Go to bed. Employed. Timesheet bound. Quietly unraveling. The alarm rings a few seconds before you expect it. You silence it without a word, place the phone on your nightstand. Brush your teeth, wash your face, comb your hair. Realize you need a new toothbrush but add it to the mental list you’ll likely forget. Pour coffee, mix in two creams, two sugars. Note that it’s almost out of sugar, promise yourself to restock soon. Drive through barely-moving traffic. Arrive at the office, swipe in. A system prompt asks you to reset your password; you choose a familiar variation, hoping not to forget. Open your email, see a reminder about tomorrow’s team-building webinar. Mark it as “to-do” and close it. Notice the breakroom’s overhead light flickers, but nobody mentions it. Return to your desk, type a message to a coworker asking for clarification on a project. Get no immediate reply. A group chat notification pops up: “Weekly sync in five minutes.” You click the join button. Listen as colleagues discuss tasks with vague urgency. Someone jokes about the glitchy software, but no one really laughs. You consider offering a comment but stay muted. The meeting ends with an unresolved action item. You wonder who will actually handle it. Check your to-do list. The high-priority task from yesterday remains. Click on the file, skim the contents. Type a short paragraph, delete it. Think about lunch, decide to eat at your desk. Open a browser tab, lose track of time scrolling through company announcements. The overhead lights hum quietly. Log out. Walk to your car, noticing the sun feels slightly harsher than usual. Drive home along the same route. Park, enter the house, set your keys down. Glance at your phone—no new notifications. Brush your teeth. Go to bed, unconvinced you’ll rest. Employed. Timesheet bound. Quietly unraveling. The alarm rings earlier than you remember setting it. You turn it off and stare at the ceiling, wondering if you ever really slept. Brush your teeth, wash your face, comb your hair. Notice an unfamiliar bruise on your forearm, can’t recall how it got there. Brew coffee with two creams, two sugars, but the creamer has an odd smell. Drink it anyway. Drive the same route, catch yourself mouthing words to a song you can’t place. Feel a flicker of panic when you realize you don’t remember the morning commute until now. Arrive at the office, swipe your badge. The door opens slower than usual, or maybe it’s just your imagination. You step inside and take a shallow breath, reminded of a dull, sterile hospital hallway. Log in to your computer. A system alert asks if you want to proceed with an action you’ve never heard of. You click “yes,” then close the window, uncertain what you’ve agreed to. A coworker taps you on the shoulder, mentions something about a project. You nod, pretending you caught every word. When they leave, your mind replays the last meeting, but the details blur like a half-erased chalkboard. You notice the flicker of the fluorescent lights in the breakroom, a faint buzzing that seems to circle in your head. Pick up a plastic cup from the dispenser, fill it with water. The water tastes slightly metallic. You wonder if anyone else notices or if they’ve simply accepted it. A sudden thought crosses your mind: what if the building itself is alive, watching you, counting the minutes until you clock out? When the day ends, you log off. Slip out the door, almost certain you’ve forgotten something crucial. Drive home, feeling like the route is different despite every sign being the same. Park in your usual spot. Enter your home. Brush your teeth, notice the bruise again. Lie down, phone in hand. Close your eyes and wait. Employed. Timesheet bound. Quietly unraveling.

Employed.

Timesheet bound.

Quietly unraveling.