Inbox Zero

Mara had feared the red bubble for years — 12,487 unread. It pulsed like a wound every time she opened her phone. One sleepless night, she snapped.

Unsubscribe. Delete. Archive.
Hours blurred. Coffee cooled. Her finger burned from swiping. By sunrise, her inbox gleamed: 0. A perfect, silent void.

She slept like someone who had thrown a boulder off a cliff.

But when she woke, her apartment felt… hollow. The coat rack was missing a coat. Her calendar had no appointments. Her phone contacts had shrunk to a handful of names she barely recognized.

She tried calling her sister — the line chimed once, then vanished, as if the number had never existed.

Her stomach tightened. She checked the trash folder. Empty. Permanently.

A knock at the door made her jump. A stranger stood there with a clipboard.
“Ma’am? I’m here for the scheduled removal.”

“What removal?”

He scanned his sheet. “Says here: Mara H., unresolved items… deleted.”

The red bubble she once dreaded now glowed in her mind — not a burden, but a warning she should never have cleared.