3:47pm

It is 3:47pm. You are at your desk. Nothing is wrong.

You close the tab you just opened for the third time without reading it. You open a new tab. You close it. The cursor blinks.

There is a quality to this particular afternoon that you cannot name. The light through the window is the same light it always is at this hour. The coffee went cold at some point. You don't remember finishing it.

You have been here before. Not here specifically — this chair, this room, this afternoon. But this. This exact texture of time. The way the minutes have weight and no direction. The way the to-do list is visible but the hand won't move toward it.

You look out the window. Someone is walking a dog that is urgently interested in a specific patch of grass. You watch until they are gone.

You look back at the screen. The cursor is still blinking.

Nothing is wrong.