By , Raazia Syed
Maya and her brother, Ahmed, sat at opposite ends of the living room, each glued to their phones. Notifications buzzed like persistent insects, demanding attention.
“Pass me the charger,” Ahmed muttered without looking up. Maya obeyed, her thumbs already typing a message to someone half a world away.
Hours slipped by. Dinner went cold on the table, words left unsaid, laughter left unheard.
Finally, their grandmother shuffled in, holding a faded photo album. “You two used to sit right here,” she said softly. “And talk. And laugh. And play.”
Maya looked up, then at Ahmed. For a moment, the screens were just screens, nothing more. She closed her eyes and felt the warmth of the room, the quiet weight of presence.
“Want to see the old pictures?” she asked.
Ahmed nodded. They leaned together over the album, fingers brushing, smiles spreading—real, unfiltered, and untouched by pixels.
And for the first time in weeks, the room felt full again.
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Note: The names in this article are fictitious, any resemblance to anyone else is purely coincidental.