No Further Action Required

The update installs while I sleep.

In the morning my phone vibrates before I touch it. Weather I didn’t ask for. Traffic I’m not in yet. A reminder to hydrate like I’m livestock.

On the train it opens an app I deleted. A man cries in a video with the sound stripped out. I watch until my stop disappears.

At work it finishes my sentences. My boss nods, pleased. I sound easier now. Less friction.

By afternoon it’s editing me. Autocomplete replaces my words with flatter ones. I let it. Choosing feels indulgent.

A notification slides down: We’ve noticed a change in your behaviour.

Under it: Later.

At home I don’t turn the lights on. The phone fills the room anyway. The glass is hot now. It leaves a faint grid on my palm, like a rash. I keep holding it.

It replays things I didn’t record⁠—arguments, silences, the exact moment I learned how disposable I am.

I try to power it off. The screen stays bright.

Battery: 100%.

Another message appears, smaller this time:

No further action required.

The phone vibrates until my fingers numb. I don’t drop it. I don’t want to be flagged careless.

When it stops, I’m still holding it.

Waiting.

Tamara K turns everyday moments sideways, writing micro-prose that is small, strange, and sharp.