The Day I Forgot What I Was Missing

I woke up.

So quiet.

I couldn't hear anything.

Yet there was something unsettling in the silence.

A feeling of losing control was slowly taking shape.

I had slept unusually well.

It felt like the kind of sleep you get when you wake naturally, completely rested.

I was convinced I had truly slept well.

I got out of bed and, without thinking, reached toward the outlet beside my bed.

I didn't know why I had made that familiar gesture.

What was I looking for?

I went to the bathroom.

After washing up, I felt a strange sense of loss.

But I couldn't explain it.

I got dressed and walked into the living room.

—Quiet.

What sound was missing?

I asked myself,

Am I sick?

Then, almost instinctively, my right hand reached toward the back pocket of my jeans.

—Empty.

What was I looking for?

A sudden wave of dizziness came over me.

I looked up at the wall in the living room.

Something was missing.

But...

I couldn't remember what.

What's wrong with me today?

I walked over to the coffee machine and pressed the button.

I watched the steam slowly rise.

I tried to organize my thoughts.

What important things do I have to do today?

I walked to the dining table.

—Neat.

My...

My...

Something was missing.

I couldn't even say what it was.

The coffee began spilling into my cup.

I lifted my left wrist.

There was nothing on it.

What was I looking for?

My whole body began to feel uncomfortable.

I felt as though I couldn't take care of myself anymore.

Except for pressing the button on the coffee machine.

I started to panic.

What was I looking for?

What was it?

The thing...

that woke me up.

That told me what time it was.

That told me what day it was.

That told me what I had planned for the day.

That told me what was happening in the world.

The thing people used to talk to me.

The thing people used to send me photos and voice messages.

What was it?

A wave of dizziness hit me.

I almost collapsed.

Again, my hand reached toward the back pocket of my jeans.

Still.

—Nothing.

It felt as if I had suddenly lost the ability to control my life.

Even the ability to take care of myself.

I thought...

Maybe I'm sick.

I walked back to the coffee machine.

I drank my coffee as I always did.

Then I got ready for work.

I walked out of my apartment and stood on the street.

Again, my hand went to the back pocket of my jeans.

Still.

—Nothing.

I looked left.

Then right.

I didn't understand what this repeated gesture meant.

But after everything that had happened that morning,

after that strange sense of loss I couldn't explain,

I suddenly felt the urge to ask someone for help.

I think I'm really sick.

I'll make an appointment with a doctor when I get to work.

I walked toward the nearby subway station.

I wanted to buy a ticket.

Again, my hand went to my back pocket.

Where was my wallet?

Had I forgotten my wallet?

How was I supposed to take the subway?

How had I taken public transportation before today?

My sense of helplessness suddenly rose.

I felt like a five-year-old child.

But I wasn't lost.

I was...

lost.

And the worst part was,

I didn't even know what had made me lost.

I had to get to work.

—What time is it?

From the moment I left my apartment until now,

I had no idea what time it was.

I walked up to the ticket counter.

"Excuse me. What time is it?"

The employee looked at the clock.

"It's 11:27."

"What?"

"It's already after eleven?"

"Yes, sir. Are you all right?"

It felt like someone had punched my thoughts out of my head.

"What day is it?"

The employee looked at me.

"Tuesday."

"What?"

"Isn't it Monday?"

My voice began to shake.

"I'm quite sure it's Tuesday. Look at the display behind me."

I followed his finger.

The electronic clock clearly showed:

Tuesday. 11:29 a.m.

My face went pale.

"Sir, are you sure you're okay? Do you need help?"

He looked genuinely concerned.

"I'm...

I'm fine.

Thank you."

The biggest lie I had ever told.

I walked away from the counter.

I started trying to remember.

Where had I been yesterday?

Hadn't I gone to work?

Why hadn't anyone contacted me?

What was happening to me?

I had to get to the office.

But how?

I didn't have my wallet.

An hour and a half later,

I finally arrived at the office.

I was close to breaking down.

The receptionist saw me and immediately looked concerned.

"Why didn't you come to work yesterday?

Your manager couldn't reach you."

I didn't know what to say.

She looked at my face.

"You don't look well.

Are you sick?"

"No.

I'll go see my manager."

I felt like I was going to collapse.

I walked toward my manager's office,

trying to figure out how I was going to explain myself.

But I didn't know what to explain.

I didn't know what had happened either.

Everything was out of control.

Everything was wrong.

I knocked on the door.

"Come in."

I stepped inside.

My manager looked at me with concern.

"Alex, are you all right?

Why didn't you come to work yesterday?

HR couldn't reach you either.

We emailed you, but you didn't respond.

We were really worried something had happened to you.

If you hadn't come in today,

we were going to contact the police and ask them to check on you."

I stood there.

"I'm sorry.

I'm still trying to figure out what's happening to me.

When I woke up this morning,

everything seemed normal at first.

Then I started going through my usual routine,

and I realized...

something important was missing.

Maybe more than one thing.

It felt like someone had stolen something from my apartment.

Or maybe...

like part of my body was gone.

But I don't feel any pain.

I just...

I feel like I suddenly don't know how to take care of myself anymore.

And I couldn't find my money.

But I kept doing this strange thing.

I kept reaching into the back pocket of my jeans.

I just...

I don't know what I was looking for."

My manager frowned.

He was silent for a few seconds.

Then he asked,

"Alex."

"Where's your phone?"

I froze.

"My...

phone?"

"Yes."

He looked at me.

"Where's your phone?"

"My phone?"

"Yes."

"My phone..."

I looked down at my hands.

Then I touched the back pocket of my jeans again.

"Your number doesn't exist," he said.

I looked at him.

"What?"

"We tried calling you.

The carrier says your number doesn't exist."

My vision began to blur.

My head spun.

A ringing filled my ears.

And suddenly,

I saw it.

Not in front of me.

In my mind.

My phone.

The phone that woke me up every morning.

The phone that told me the time.

The phone that told me what day it was.

The phone that reminded me of my schedule.

The phone that told me what was happening in the world.

The phone that carried maps

and showed me how to get home.

The phone that connected me to my coworkers, my friends, my family.

The phone that held my photographs.

My voice messages.

My memories.

The phone I used to pay for things.

The phone that remembered my passwords.

The phone that remembered all the things

I had stopped remembering myself.

I suddenly remembered

how I looked at it every day.

How I touched it every day.

How I depended on it every day.

How I had slowly handed over

pieces of my life

to it.

And then—

everything went black.

That was the last thing I remembered

before I collapsed.

But I still didn't know

that it wasn't just my phone that had disappeared.

Every smartphone

in the world

had stopped working.