MICROFICTION

The Day All the Windows Disappeared

And no one seemed to notice

It’s completely dark.

Maybe it’s the middle of the night, and there are a few hours of respite until I have to switch myself on. I can’t tell if my eyes are open or closed.

I roll to my side, and my clock says 9:00.

Maybe it’s a dream. But I never see devices in them or remember my to-do list. It’s Saturday, and I have an entire day of interviews to organize.

Last night my inbox said 47.

I open my gray IKEA light block curtains, and there’s a wall behind them. I scramble from room to room. Even the one in my kitchen is frosted.

Can’t deal. Shower, change, run.

I practice my lines in the elevator. “Would you like some coffee?”, “The panel will be another ten minutes,” and “We’ll get back to you soon.”

I step out during lunch. The building’s turned from glass to stone.

My manager tells me to not worry about it. We keep the blinds closed anyway, and inside our offices, no one can tell whether it’s night or day.

After work — in the evening.

On my way home, I try my best to observe my surroundings. Most windows have disappeared, few have shutters on, and others I can’t see through.

There’s a package at my door. My iPhone 15.

I call my mother. She shames me for not leaving the city last weekend for an Instaworthy escape. Returning the thirty-odd CTAs was an awful idea.

“Why do you care about the windows?”

I start scrolling and remain glued to my couch for two hours. I don’t have energy for dinner or to clean my room. I answer emails for another.

I’ll find out tomorrow.