Abhinandan Kaul
It happened on a Wednesday evening.
The kind where fog hangs over Noida like it’s trying to tuck the city into a blanket. The streetlights glimmer through it, making everything feel slightly unreal. I was sitting on my desk, phone in hand, scrolling because scrolling is easier than feeling.
Three hundred unread messages.
A forward from my mother: “Eat on time, Krishna!”
A meme from someone I barely know, probably forwarded ten times already.
A friend asking if I’m free to “hang out” somewhere, though I know they mean check-in, not actually talk.
Another friend pinging about a seminar I didn’t register for.
And yet, somehow, my chest felt heavier with every swipe, as if the weight of all those messages was pressing down on something invisible inside me.
Inbox full. Heart empty.
The Noise of Being Seen
It’s funny. We are everywhere digitally. Always reachable. Always “on.” Always replying. Always scrolling.
Yet, for all that connection, most of it passes through without touching us.
We comment on stories about someone’s chai or their “morning vibes,” but we don’t notice if they haven’t slept in three nights because of assignments or overthinking. We reply to messages about weekend plans or group meet-ups, but not the ones about silent struggles, the ones we never say out loud because vulnerability feels like a weakness.
We are, collectively, becoming experts at performing presence without feeling it.
And sometimes I wonder if we even know what presence is anymore. Or if it’s just an illusion we’ve convinced ourselves is real.
The Ritual of Digital Life
Even the small things are curated. A meal isn’t eaten, it’s captured. A walk isn’t taken, it’s recorded. A joke isn’t told, it’s forwarded.
We live in group chats, in notifications, in forwards. Even laughter is shared as a sticker. Even concern is sent as a “thumbs-up” emoji.
And somewhere between all the pings, the heart quietly empties.
The Messages That Don’t Matter
Yesterday, someone asked: “Hey, how are you?”
I stared at it. For a second, it felt like someone wanted to know.
Then I opened it: “Busy?”
And just like that, the question evaporated into routine. Hundreds of messages, none of them asking what matters.
We have thousands of contacts, endless chats, dozens of groups. But when the heart wants to speak, no one listens. . And even if they tried, it’s hard to believe someone could really understand the parts of us we don’t even say to ourselves.
The Illusion of Availability
We chase presence like it’s a necessity.
The phone buzzes. We reply. Because if we don’t, people notice. Because if we don’t, it feels like we don’t exist.
But the notifications can’t hug. The forwards can’t stay awake with us at 2 a.m. The GIFs can’t notice the pause between breaths, when the chest feels tight and nothing makes sense.
We are always available to everyone else, but rarely available to ourselves. That’s the cruel trick of being “online”, we forget how to be offline, how to just… be.
Scrolling Through Solitude
So I scrolled. Through the brain rot memes, political rants, “Good morning” forwards. Through videos of DIY hacks, dance rehearsals, random viral clips.
A message popped up: “Hey, free tomorrow?”
I typed: “Yeah.”
And immediately felt the pang. Did they want me? Or just someone to fill the silence?
This is the paradox of modern life: the more connected we are, the lonelier we feel. The more we share, the less anyone actually knows.
Logging Out to Tune In
So I did something radical. I turned off notifications. Put my phone face down. Closed WhatsApp. Turned off Instagram.
I went to the balcony. Fog curling over, lights in the distance soft and blurred. I sipped my steaming tea, inhaled the sharp winter air, and listened to the distant hum of traffic, the occasional laugh of someone walking home, the neighbor calling for dinner, a dog barking somewhere far away..
No messages. No pings. No likes.
And for the first time in hours, maybe days, I felt… alive. Not seen by others. Seen by myself.
The Moments That Matter
I noticed the steam rising from the cup. The smell of damp soil after the drizzle. The faint sound of someone practicing drums somewhere in the building, the tiny lights of apartments across the street twinkling faintly through the fog.
No one would record this. No one would forward it. It wasn’t “content.”
And yet, it was real. And for once, that felt enough.
Inbox full, heart empty.
Maybe it’s the most honest status we could post.
But maybe, just maybe, we don’t need more messages. We need presence.
Sit with someone and actually listen.
Walk without your phone.
Eat without capturing it.
Laugh without sending it as a sticker.
These tiny, unshareable moments are the signal.
A Winter Rebellion
What if we became rebels?
Ignoring notifications.
Saying no to endless group forwards.
Feeling without posting.
Caring without announcing it.
Just presence. Real, quiet, unfiltered presence.
Maybe the rebellion is simple:
To look someone in the eye and stay there.
To let the fog settle over the city without checking your phone.
To let your heart fill with something that cannot be liked, shared, or forwarded.
And maybe, on a foggy winter evening in Noida, when the tea is warm, the streets are quiet, and the lights across the city twinkle faintly like distant stars, your heart finally catches up to your inbox.
Finally remembers what it’s like to feel.
Finally remembers itself.
And in that silence, that pause between pings, maybe you’ll hear it:
the quiet, stubborn pulse of being truly alive!