Gregor Samsa wakes up in 2025. Not in a bug body—no, that would be merciful. He wakes up in his regular skin, but it feels like it’s hanging off him wrong. He’s got eye bags, five unread messages from his manager, and an Uber Eats subscription he can’t cancel because even his cravings have become algorithms.
His room is suffocating—smells like screen light, anxiety sweat, and leftover ambition.
He checks Slack before he pees.
He’s been working from home for three years. “Flexible hours,” they said. “Unlimited PTO.” But somehow he hasn’t taken a break since 2022. He lives on muted Zoom calls and panicked midnight slideshows.
His boss sends smiley faces after 10 p.m.
His friends stopped calling because he never had time.
His sister? She just Venmo requests him once a month. And his parents—yeah, they still ask if the “real job” is coming soon.
Gregor doesn’t speak much anymore. What’s the point? When he does, it’s in LinkedIn aphorisms. “Excited to learn and grow.” “Grateful for the opportunity.” “Let’s connect!” But inside, he’s dust. Beige dust. Corporate dust.
His apartment window looks out at a brick wall. Symbolic. He watches pigeons and wonders if they feel shame. If they look at humans in tiny overpriced boxes and think “damn.”
He opens Instagram. Everyone’s thriving. Gym selfies, coffee montages, people “finally prioritizing mental health.” Gregor can’t even prioritize brushing his teeth. He hasn’t tasted joy in months. Just caffeine and quiet panic.
He’s not dying. He’s just fading. And that’s worse. There’s no scream. No final collapse. Just days that stretch like cheap chewing gum—grey, flavorless, endless.
In another timeline, he would’ve turned into a bug. And people would’ve cared. They would’ve screamed, cried, written essays about him. But in this world? He just disappears into a spreadsheet.
And the saddest part? The world keeps turning.