Tamara Brereton-Karabetsos
Time slips.
Quiet.
Soft.
Like it’s trying not to wake the parts of me I keep pretending are asleep.
But if I’m honest—
it’s me.
It’s always been me.
Turning the glass.
Stopping the clock.
Walking away before anything
has the chance to break me.
Maybe the hourglass isn’t a countdown.
Maybe it’s a mirror.
Showing me how often I choose escape
and call it “ending”.
How often I choose silence
and call it “strength.”
Time doesn’t force anything.
It just reveals what I’m running from.
And maybe—just maybe—
it’s time I stopped flipping the glass
and finally let something
reach me.
Tamara Brereton-Karabetsos
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.