You ever walk into a house that’s supposed to smell like cinnamon or lavender or whatever bullshit they put in the candles but instead it just smells like heated plastic and ozone? Like you go to check on your mother because she’s seventy-two and you think maybe she’s fallen or she’s just staring at the wall but then you hear the clicking. That rhythmic, aggressive mechanical clicking that sounds like a goddamn typewriter on steroids. You realize you’re standing in the hallway of this rent-controlled walk-up in Queens and the light under the door is flickering blue and green and purple and you just feel... nothing. Not even surprised anymore. Sometimes you just wonder when the world got so loud and when you became the only one who wanted it to be quiet. She’s got this headset on, the kind with the glowing cat ears because she thought they were funny or maybe she just liked the LED pulse, and she’s leaning so close to the monitor that her glasses are reflecting the muzzle flash of a virtual assault rifle. You stand there in your work clothes—those expensive slacks that cost more than your first car and make you look like a "success"—and you watch her thumbs dance. It’s weird how fast she is. You know that feeling when you realize your own parents are more technically proficient at murder-simulators than you are at your own life? You’re thirty-eight and your back hurts from sitting in a chair that’s supposed to be ergonomic but just feels like a torture device, and she’s screaming GET TO THE CIRCLE YOU MORON into a mic while her tea goes cold on a coaster that says World's Best Grandma. You think about your own desk, the one at the firm where the coffee is free but the soul-sucking is mandatory, and how you spend eight hours a day formatting spreadsheets that nobody actually reads. You see her there, screaming at a 14-year-old about loot drops, and you start to think that maybe the whole concept of aging gracefully is just a lie told to people so they don't buy a PC rig and ignore their mortgage. It’s like, what are we even doing? You work so hard to get to the end, to get to where she is, and the end is just... more screens. Different colors, same vacuum. You’re struggling to pay for a two-bedroom in a zip code that’s gentrifying so fast you can’t keep track of the new artisanal toast shops, and she’s just... checked out. She finally notices you and she doesn't take the headset off, she just slides one cup off her ear and looks at you with these eyes that are bloodshot from the blue light. She says, did you bring the dumplings? and you realize you forgot because you were too busy thinking about the email your boss sent at 6 PM about the deliverables for Monday. You say no and she just shrugs, turns back to the screen, and starts looting a crate. The lack of disappointment is what kills you. It’s not that she’s mad, it’s that you’re less interesting than the legendary skin she just unlocked. Sometimes you just want someone to be disappointed in you because at least it means you mattered enough to fail. But here, in the glow of a 3080 graphics card, you’re just a ghost in the room. There’s a strange sort of vertigo in it. You try to tell her about the promotion you didn't get or the person you’ve been seeing who still hasn't texted back after three days, and she just says I'M DOWN, REVIVE ME to a stranger named Xx_ShadowSlayer_xX. It’s not heart-wrenching, it’s just empty. Like a file that’s been deleted but the shortcut is still on the desktop. You realize she’s living in a world where the stakes are high but the consequences are zero, and you’re living in a world where the stakes feel fake but the consequences can ruin your credit score for a decade. It makes you want to laugh but you’re too tired for the effort. You leave her there at midnight because you have to catch the last train and the platform is cold and smells like iron and wet trash. You look at the people around you and they’re all staring at their phones, thumbs swiping, eyes glazed, and you realize you’re just a younger version of her without the headset. You’re playing a different game, one with HR departments and performance reviews and "professionalism," but you’re still just chasing a circle that keeps getting smaller and smaller. You wonder if when you’re seventy, you’ll be the one with the mechanical keyboard, ignoring your own kid because you finally found a place where you can actually win. She called you once, not to check in, but because her ping was spiking and she thought the router was dying. You spent forty-five minutes on the floor of her living room, untangling cables that looked like a nest of snakes, while she sat above you talking about meta builds and clutching the win. You looked up at her wrinkled hands—the same hands that used to hold yours at the grocery store—and they were clicking that mouse with a precision that was almost terrifying. It’s not a hobby. It’s an occupation. She’s retired from life but she’s working overtime in the zone. You wonder if she’s happy, but the word feels too heavy, too complex for the situation. She’s just... occupied. And you’re just... there. You get home and your apartment is too quiet. You think about turning on the TV but you just sit on the edge of the bed and listen to the city noise outside. You realize you’re jealous. You’re jealous of a seventy-year-old woman who doesn't give a damn about the real world because she’s too busy being a god-tier sniper. You’ve spent your whole life doing what you were supposed to do, checking the boxes, being the responsible one, and you’re just TIRED. You’re so exhausted that you can’t even feel the sadness of it. You just feel flat. Like a piece of paper that’s been folded too many times. Anyway, it’s 2 AM and the blue light from your own phone is stinging your eyes but you can’t stop scrolling. You think about buying a keyboard. Not for work, but just to hear that click. To feel like you’re doing something that has a clear objective, even if it’s just pixels on a screen. You know that feeling when you realize you’ve reached the midpoint of your life and you’re not even the main character in your own story? You’re just a background NPC watching someone else play the game. It’s fine. It’s all fine. You just wish she’d let you have one of those dumplings... or maybe just looked at you for five seconds without checking her kill count.