There’s a moment of pure panic that hits me whenever I open my laptop after hours and realize I’ve forgotten to set my status to “Away.” That tiny green dot—the digital equivalent of leaving your front door wide open with a neon sign flashing “COME ON IN!”—has betrayed my presence to the entire professional world. Within seconds, the messages start: “Hey, quick question…” “Since you’re online…” “Got a minute?” No, I don’t have a minute.…

My phone buzzed as I was writing this sentence. Without a moment’s hesitation, my hand reached for it, my brain already flooding with the familiar pre-notification questions: Who’s it from? Is it important? Will it be rewarding? In the second before I saw the screen, I felt it—that tiny surge of anticipation, that little hit of excitement. It was a notification that my food delivery driver was approaching. Not exactly life-changing news. Yet I felt…

I was sitting alone at a restaurant bar last Tuesday, waiting for a colleague who was running late. The moment I realized I’d be sitting there by myself for at least fifteen minutes, I felt a familiar discomfort rise up—that peculiar social anxiety that comes from being alone in a public space with nothing specific to do. My hand was reaching for my phone before the thought had even fully formed. As I scrolled mindlessly…

It was 2:17 AM when the ellipsis appeared. Three innocent dots, bouncing in perpetual animation, signaling that my ex was typing a response to the message I’d impulsively sent after two glasses of wine and a late-night scroll through old photos. Those three dots held me hostage for seven excruciating minutes, triggering a psychological roller coaster that cycled through hope, dread, embarrassment, anticipation, and full-blown existential panic. When they finally disappeared without a message following,…

I knew my marriage was in trouble when my wife and I started using separate devices at night. It wasn’t the screens themselves causing the problem—it was what was on them. Specifically, the color schemes. I’m a dedicated dark mode user, the kind who has every app, browser, and operating system set to that sleek, battery-saving black background with light text. My wife, meanwhile, is an unapologetic light mode enthusiast who keeps her devices set…

Last Tuesday, Facebook suggested I wish a happy birthday to Robert, my college roommate who died three years ago. His profile picture—grinning on a hiking trail, eternally 32 years old—appeared in my notifications alongside the cheerful reminder. For a disorienting moment, I forgot he was gone. Then reality crashed back, bringing with it an odd mixture of grief and technological discomfort. Robert’s digital ghost continues to haunt the platforms we once shared. His Twitter account…

My phone buzzed at 2:17 AM last Thursday with that familiar notification: “You’ve lost a follower.” I’d like to tell you I rolled over and went back to sleep, secure in my self-worth and indifferent to this microscopic shift in my digital footprint. I’d like to tell you that, but it would be a lie. Instead, I spent the next 47 minutes – I checked the time stamp on my last comparison screenshot – trying…

There’s a moment of pure, crystalline horror that exists in the space between clicking “Reply All” and realizing you’ve actually clicked “Reply All.” I experienced this moment with perfect clarity on a Tuesday morning in 2011, watching helplessly as my snarky commentary about a client’s impossible demands rocketed not just to my intended recipient – my long-suffering project manager – but to the entire project team, including said client. Time stretched in that peculiar way…

The night I found myself sitting across from a woman who looked nothing like her profile pictures – while realizing I probably looked nothing like mine either – was the moment I truly understood what dating had become in the algorithmic age. Both of us had presented aspirational versions of ourselves: her photos were from seven years and one dramatic haircut ago; mine strategically hid the gradual surrender of my hairline to time and genetics.…

My wife discovered my secret last Tuesday. She’d borrowed my laptop to check her email while hers was updating, and I heard a gasp from the living room. “Marcus, what is THIS?” I knew immediately what she’d found. Not an illicit correspondence or questionable search history—something far more revealing about my psyche: my browser situation. Specifically, the 147 tabs spread across 23 windows that I’d been carefully maintaining for weeks. My digital hoarding, exposed to…