I Only Sat Down for Five Minutes 

I only sat down for five minutes.

That was the plan.

Five minutes.

A short break.

A harmless pause between “productive adult” and “responsible human being.”

The chair looked innocent. Too innocent.

I told myself, “Let me just sit and breathe.”

Next thing I knew, my phone was in my hand like it had been waiting for me all day.

One notification became three.

Three became scrolling.

Scrolling became “Why am I watching someone clean a ceiling fan at 2x speed?”

Time passed strangely.

Not normal time.

That sneaky kind of time that moves quietly so you don’t panic until it’s too late.

At some point, I laughed at something that wasn’t funny.

I nodded at a video like it had just given me life advice.

I whispered, “Wow,” to absolutely nothing.

The chair slowly swallowed me.

My body melted into a posture no doctor would approve of.

My spine signed a resignation letter.

My brain clocked out.

Then guilt arrived.

Not loudly.

Softly.

“Didn’t you say you were going to do something?”

Yes.

I did.

I still am.

Just not now.

Five minutes turned into thirty.

Thirty turned into “What day is it?”

Suddenly, the light in the room felt different — darker, judgmental.

I checked the time.

An hour.

An entire hour had vanished.

No warning.

No apology.

I stood up quickly, pretending that would undo what happened.

As if standing fast enough could rewind time.

It didn’t.

The chair stayed there.

Quiet.

Satisfied.

Like it had won.