The Vanishing Good Morning
I hurried into the lift. One after another, people streamed in — shoulder to shoulder —
as if the air itself were running out. Of course we don’t believe in queues. Those left
behind grumbled. They’d have to wait a minute or two longer. That minute, in the calm
before leaving home, had felt worth something. Now it seemed stolen.
The doors of the lift closed with a gentle thud. Instantly, everybody reached for their
phones, pulling them out like shields. The dull glow from screens pooled light in the
dim cabin. Eyes locked, faces downturned. No one spoke. No one dared a glance.
Conversation was an intrusion — a disturbance.
The mobile phones had taken over. Real people turned into background noise; artificial
friends became lifelines. Someone’s thumbs flicked over photos, comments, news. A
soft chirp, a vibration. A “like.” The lift lurched in motion — first floor, second — each
stop disgorging bodies into the corridor and taking in new ones, more faces, more
devices.
I wanted to look up. Just once. To see if someone else was feeling this — this isolation,
this sameness. But my eyes stayed fixed on my screen. I fumbled with it, scrolling,
seeking distraction. A headline. A meme. Anything. It didn’t matter what.
No “Good morning.” No “Hello.” Even the lift bell, announcing each floor, felt disjointed
from humanity. Each ding was mechanical, not a pause for human presence. We were
prisoners of our silence, both chosen and forced.
The vibration underfoot changed as the lift neared my floor. A mild jolt. The doors
parted like a sigh. I stepped out, swallowed by the corridor’s artificial light. Behind me,
others remained locked in their digital worlds, stepping past each other without notice.
I was the odd one out — always had been.
I closed the lift door behind me and paused in the corridor. For a moment, just a breath,
I felt sharply alive. All the screens in the lift behind me, glowing. All that noise. I
wondered: when did our phones become the bigger rooms we live in, the only rooms
that feel ours? And when did faces stop mattering, replaced by pixels and
notifications?
I walked away, hearing the soft hum of the lift, the echo of doors shutting, and
something in me wished someone had said “Good morning.”
