Offline.
The message sits. Unread. Unanswered.
Not "away." Not "idle." Offline.
And somewhere, in a different window, a friend types: "Hey. You okay?" cat sis offline
In the metadata, one last packet remains unsent:
The server pings her every 90 seconds. A gentle are you there? in machine language.
The chat scrolls on without her. New memes. New goodnights. A bot announces someone just joined #music-production. A gif of a dancing banana. Offline
Gray.
4 hours ago. Typing. Always typing. A flurry of lowercase syllables, a cascade of <3 and ::shrug:: and paws at keyboard . Then—nothing. The sentence unfinished. The "send" button untouched.
The system doesn't log why. Doesn't log the soft click of a laptop lid closing in a room where rain taps against a window. Doesn't log the ringtone that went unanswered. Doesn't log the empty bowl of tea growing cold beside a sleeping phone. Unanswered
Offline means her lamp is off. Offline means her phone is facedown. Offline means maybe she's sleeping. Or crying. Or staring at a ceiling, counting cracks like constellations. Or maybe she's fine—just tired of screens, tired of green bubbles, tired of performing presence for a room that never quite feels like home.
[cat_sis]: i think if i disappear, it'll just be like turning off a light. not sad. just dark. and cats don't mind the dark. The message is still queued. Will never deliver.
The cursor blinks, patient as a cat waiting by a door no one opens.
The terminal blinks once, then steadies into a flat, gray stillness. No prompt. No cursor. Just the quiet hum of a connection that has frayed at its last thread.