The Wi-Fi Is Strong, But the Soul Is Weak
July 26, 2025
In a small hostel on the edge of an unfamiliar coastline, a girl stared at her screen. Her skin was sun-warmed but her eyes were dry. The palm trees outside danced like they had secrets; inside, she tried to caption her latest post just right.
“Living the dream,” she typed.
Backspaced.
“Island vibes only.”
Backspaced again.
She settled on nothing and uploaded the photo anyway.
A smile with no timestamp. A view with no cost.
No one saw the overdraft messages on her banking app. Or the five-dollar hostel bed with the broken fan. Or the twenty tabs open—Upwork gigs, flight alerts, remote job boards, and a how-to article on “Making Six Figures as a Digital Nomad (Even if You’re Not Special).”
Her passport was full of stamps. Her heart, of static.
The thing about always chasing freedom is that it begins to feel like running. Not toward something. Just away. From desks. From rent. From parents asking when you’ll get a “real job.” From the version of you that once wanted more than a hammock and a glowing rectangle.
Back home, her friends posted wedding rings and baby shoes.
She posted coconuts and sunsets.
Somewhere between both lives, the silence hummed: Are you okay?
She hadn’t journaled in weeks. Hadn’t written anything real in months. Her creativity was tired. Her inbox was tired. Her body was tired. But the algorithm demanded her to smile. A tired smile. The kind that fits into 1080x1350 pixels but not into real mornings.
She missed structure the way a drifting boat misses an anchor.
She missed weekends. The kind that felt earned.
She missed someone asking, “How was work?”
And meaning it.
Instead, she woke each day with no plan except to look like she was thriving. Wi-Fi, espresso, ring light. Filters and freedom.
She could still remember when she thought this life would save her.
Now she wondered if it was just another kind of trap—with prettier views.
That night, she unplugged the ring light. Drank a warm bottle of water. And for the first time in a while, she let the post sit in drafts.
The waves outside still moved.
She didn’t.
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