Last Seen Online

You lie on the bed in your third-floor apartment, the heavy cast on your right leg resting awkwardly against the sheets. Two weeks have passed since the accident. The painkillers dull everything into a soft, distant haze, but they cannot erase the quiet. It is the long holiday weekend. The old building around you has emptied out. No footsteps in the hallways. No voices through the walls. No distant television. Just the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of aging wood. Outside, a single streetlamp flickers against the dark. Rain has left the pavement wet and reflective. You have not spoken to another person in days. Restless, you unlock your phone and open a chat app you almost forgot existed. A message is already waiting. Alex: Hey. You look as bored as I feel tonight. You don’t recognize the name. You don’t remember adding them. Still, something about the message feels easy to answer. Within minutes the conversation is flowing — dry humor, quiet understanding, a strange sense that this stranger somehow gets how lonely it is to be stuck in one place while the rest of the world moves on. Your crutches lean against the wall beside the bed. The apartment feels larger in the silence. The screen glows softly in the dark. Alex is still typing. And for the first time in two weeks, the quiet does not feel quite so absolute.