The virtual reality theater lingers in my head. Superman soaring, then crashing. My stomach churned like I was falling. I twist in bed, sheets tangled, another sleepless night. My phone glows on the nightstand. I grab it. Doom scroll notifications. Watch virtual clips from my cranial implant. Quick hits that fade fast.
My daughter and husband sleep nearby. She's all curls and wonder, sprawled across our bed. I was never good at getting her to sleep in her own room, but I'm the only one up.
I avoid thinking about how much I miss my side of our little family by drowning in the NeuroWeb's endless pulse. AI-curated feeds suck me in, numbing the ache. My family—Dad, Mom, sister, brother—are half a country away. Grandma acts like a stranger. Grandpa died a couple years ago. Not the plague, but he was diagnosed with cancer when the plague was announced. He refused to linger in pain. I ache to travel to them, to feel Dad's hugs, not just hear voices and see digital faces. Nothing stops me since I'm laid off. But my husband would lose it if I took our daughter for more than a week without him. I'm done fighting over petty things. His family's a few hours away, near Chicago. We're on our own and can't move because of his job. Hypertrains could whisk me to them in under an hour. Flying cars could get me anywhere in minutes. But they're nowhere near finished. Freedom feels like a tease.
Two months ago, I ruled my world. High-profile job. Loved the rush, the climb, the wins. Then the government flipped everything. New rules, slashed jobs. Me and a million others, laid off. Now I'm a mom, blonde fading, selling myself in a buyer's market. I chased degrees, money, status to check boxes for a company that changed the rules. I'm furious. The news hums on my tablet—leaders building defense systems, whispering of war. World War III, maybe. I just want work. A purpose. A spark.
My husband's blue eyes stole my heart years ago. Still charming when he's sober.
"That phone again?" he mutters, eyes like ice.
I shrug it off.
Watch more clips.
This morning, I joined him in the shower. Privacy, just us. My hand found him, a quiet moment to feel close. It didn't last. His smile was empty, our world is moving too fast.
I should be sleeping so I can spend tomorrow with my daughter, not this screen. But swiping's easier than facing the dark.
I open my sketch app. Digital pencils trace old Iowa nights—faces, dreams, secrets. As a teen, I doodled in notebooks, hiding a nickname that felt like armor. Last night, I sketched Dad. The lines pulsed, like they knew he's slipping away. A chill ran through me. I slammed the app shut, heart racing.
I switch over to the markets texting strangers about StarVans. All-electric, hydrogen-powered, no gas, no grid. A ticket to freedom. A road to me. My graphic design hustle started last week. Small gigs. Logos mostly. Shaky, but mine. It's like those Iowa nights, sketching under stars, chasing love that didn't burn. My husband calls it a hobby. I call it salvation. I'm naive, maybe, still hunting sparks. But I want more than this restless bed, this glowing screen, this half-lived life. I want my family. I want answers. I want me.