Scheduled for 08:00

I closed the book without meaning to.

Not slowly. Not carefully. Just shut. Like I was cutting someone off mid-sentence. The sound was sharper than I expected, loud enough to make me pause, as if I’d broken a rule I couldn’t quite name.

I’d opened it five minutes ago. Maybe less. The story had just started to work. One of those moments where the characters stop circling and finally step forward. The kind of moment I usually live for. Still, the book lay there now, face down, innocent and useless, and I stared at it as if it had disappointed me.

I like books. I say that about myself. I own too many of them. I read on trains, in cafés, in bed until my eyes blur. Reading is supposed to be my escape. My proof that I still have an inner life.

So why couldn’t I do it?

Why, the moment everything went quiet, did my mind suddenly fill with noise?

You should be doing something useful, it whispered.

Something that counts.

Something that keeps you relevant.

I didn’t want to be relevant. I didn’t want to improve, optimize, or prepare for anything. I just wanted to read my stupid novel and forget myself for a while.

I looked out the window. Two crows hopped along the balcony railing, pecking at nothing, arguing over invisible scraps. One of them tilted its head, as if it had noticed me watching.

Lucky creatures, I thought.

Their lives are brutal, sure, but simple. Eat. Fly. Don’t die. No five-year plans. No personal brands. No quiet panic about falling behind.

Humans don’t really enjoy things anymore. We perform enjoyment. We document it. We turn it into proof. Even rest has to justify itself now.

And then, as always, my thoughts drifted to Alice.

Perfect Alice.

The kind of woman who looks like she was designed for professional platforms. Warm but controlled. Ambitious without being threatening. Funny in a way that never crosses into strange. Confident, but humble enough to use the word “grateful” often and sincerely.

One look at her and you already feel behind.

She has the smile. The calm one. The kind that suggests her calendar obeys her.

She has a husband. Of course. And a house that somehow looks big even in carefully cropped photos.

She cooks in her free time. Not “quick dinner after work” cooking. Real cooking. The kind that wins local competitions. Still winning.

She works out four times a week, sometimes five, and posts about how easy it is if you “prioritize yourself.” Her body looks disciplined, cooperative. Like it understands the assignment.

Her skin never looks tired. No shadows. No stress. And if anyone hints at cosmetic help, she laughs it off, light and effortless.

And now, as if the universe wanted to complete the picture, she’s pregnant.

Still ambitious. Still glowing. Still talking about the next chapter.

My chest tightened, because right on time, the voice arrived.

What about you?

I sat up straighter, as posture could defend me.

What about your kid?

You’re older than her, you know.

I swallowed. My throat felt blocked, as if my body had decided this thought wasn’t allowed through.

I’m not ready, I told myself. I still have time. Science is advanced. Technology is—

The sentence collapsed halfway. Not because I didn’t know the words, but because suddenly they felt thin. Rehearsed.

Why haven’t you figured your life out yet? The voice asked quietly.

I reached for my phone without thinking.

It vibrated before I even unlocked it.

A notification.

Alice had posted.

“When you feel overwhelmed,” it began, “take a deep breath and be grateful for all the things in life…”

I dropped the phone onto the couch.

If it were really that simple, we’d all be calm and fit and promoted and emotionally regulated. We’d all be doing yoga at sunrise with perfect hair.

Life, according to the world I lived in, followed a simple formula: wake up early, do excellent work, smile, improve yourself, go to the gym, learn something impressive, share it, repeat.

I should know better. I have a psychology degree. I know how thoughts shape behavior. I know how comparison rewires the brain.

It didn’t stop it from working on me.

The crows returned, this time landing right at the edge of the balcony. Two black shapes, close enough to feel accusatory.

Why are you sitting there? My mind translated.

Do something.

Be productive.

Read your book, sure, it added. But don’t disappear into it. Fiction doesn’t lead anywhere measurable.

I glanced down at my stomach. Not big. Not flat. Just there. Real. Unoptimized.

Would the gym fix that? I doubted it. I’ve never been good at diets or routines or mornings.

Wake up earlier, the voice suggested.

I almost laughed. Nights are the only time the world leaves me alone. Weekends especially. A little wine. A series running in the background. Thoughts drifting until sunrise.

Sunrise.

Quiet streets. Pink sky. Birds singing like they don’t owe anyone anything.

Waste of time, the voice said.

Winners don’t watch sunrise. Winners schedule it.

A thump came from the living room. My partner, probably making tea. The normal sound grounded me and irritated me at the same time. Proof that life was continuing whether I felt ready or not.

I exhaled and picked up the book again.

Opened it.

The first line stared back at me.

You think you cannot do it, but you can.

I sighed. It sounded like advice. Like a post. Like something meant to motivate me.

I closed the book.

This time I didn’t pretend it was about reading. My hands moved automatically.

Laptop. Open.

I typed how to be better at communication.

Then opened another tab. Something about learning new skills.

Then another. Productivity routines.

Then Netflix.

One episode became two. The noise softened the voice in my head until it finally went quiet.

Later—late or early, I wasn’t sure—I paused the screen. My reflection stared back at me, tired and ordinary.

The book was still there. Waiting.

Something shifted then. Not dramatic. Just a dull irritation.

At the crows.

At Alice.

At the voice.

At myself.

I opened LinkedIn again, because apparently I enjoy punishment.

Alice’s post was doing well. Likes climbing fast. Comments pouring in. People thanking her for the reminder.

My thumb hovered, then tapped her profile.

And suddenly I remembered.

I work in marketing. I write words meant to sound human. I plan when they appear. I build characters people are supposed to relate to. I do this for a living.

Alice isn’t my friend. She isn’t my rival.

Alice is my project.

My hands moved quickly now to a folder on my laptop. A planning folder. Inside it, a schedule.

Monday: something about overwhelm and gratitude.

Wednesday: tips on working out consistently.

Friday: big news. A next chapter.

I stared at the last line until my eyes burned.

The pregnancy post was already written. Already approved. Already scheduled. There were even two slightly different versions, just in case one worked better than the other.

My stomach dropped.

I wasn’t jealous of a fake person.

I was jealous of a trap I helped build.

Thousands of people comparing their real, messy lives to a character designed to win approval. A character built to be flawless on purpose.

And I had helped make her.

I looked at the book again. At the quiet weight of it. At the only thing in the room that wasn’t trying to sell me a better version of myself.

My throat tightened, but this time it wasn’t shame.

It was grief.

For the part of me that used to read without guilt.

For the part of me that didn’t measure everything.

For the part of me that didn’t confuse worth with output.

I picked up the book.

Opened it.

Then, slowly, deliberately, I closed it again.

Not because I couldn’t read.

But because I finally understood why I hadn’t been able to.

I wasn’t fighting the book.

I was fighting the world I had helped design.

And tomorrow morning at 08:00, Alice would post again.

Unless I stopped her.

Unless I stopped me.