Keys? Check.
Wallet? Check.

Oh no.
I forgot my phone.

My chest tightens like a fist.
Heat rushes to my face.
My hands are shaking.
Pockets—left, right, jacket, bag—
empty.
Again. Again.
No. No no no no.

My heart is pounding too hard,
like it’s trying to break out of my ribs.
My fingers itch for the screen,
for the weight in my hand,
for the glow that tells me
I exist.

What if I get lost?
What if I need a map?
What if work calls?
What if something happens?
What time is it?
What time is it?
There’s no clock. No screen.
Am I late? Am I early?
How long have I been walking?
How long is this going to last?
Where am I?
Wait—where am I?
This street feels strange,
even though I’ve walked it a hundred times.
The houses blur together.
I don’t know where I am without blue dots and directions.

I need to go back.
I need to turn around right now.
Grab it.
Clutch it to my chest.
Feel whole again.

But—
No.
I can’t.
I’m already too far.
If I turn back, I’ll be late.
People are waiting.
They’ll wonder where I am.

Maybe I can run?
No—there’s no time.
I can’t risk it.
I can’t.

I have to keep going.
Even though every step feels wrong,
like walking blindfolded,
like stepping off the edge of the world
with no tether,
no anchor.

The hunger follows me.
Gnawing. Scratching.
My breath comes shallow and tight.
I can’t stop thinking about all the notifications piling up,
messages left unanswered,
the world moving on without me.

My brain keeps screaming:
You’re missing something.
You’re missing everything.

It feels like a part of me has been cut off.
Like I’ve left my second brain behind,
my second self.

But I keep walking.
One step. Then another.

The panic doesn’t leave.
It just… changes.
Like a wave cresting,
then crashing down into something else.

I breathe.
Shaky.
Shallow.
Again.

And the air—
it’s cool.
Sharp with autumn.
When did the air start to smell like this?

A house I’ve passed a hundred times
has more windows than I ever realized.
A fat orange cat sits in one,
watching the street with slow, blinking eyes.

I slow down.
The trees are on fire—
gold, crimson, rust.
It’s fall already?
When did that happen?

People stream past me,
heads bent,
eyes glowing blue.
Thumbs flicking,
scrolling through endless feeds.

That is me.
Still.
Plugged in.
Scrolling through life instead of living it.

And suddenly
a deeper fear blooms:
not of missed calls or breaking news,
but of missing this.
The sky. The leaves. The cat in the window.
The quiet pulse of being alive.

I don’t know what to do with this feeling.
It scares me as much as the silence did.

I’m not sure I’ll remember tomorrow.
Not sure I won’t slip back into old habits.
But maybe—
just maybe—
I’ll try.

Try to look up more.
Try to notice the colors before they fade.
Try to be here,
even if only for a little while.