In a typical home, in an equally mundane and dull neighborhood, a young man in his twenties is lying on the living room couch. His body is still like a statue, except for his fingers that won't stop typing on his cellphone. His eyes are illuminated by the device's screen, slightly larger than his hands, while his hands remain fixed on the electronic gadget. As he taps away on his device, he displays an intense concentration, hardly noticing anything around him. Everything seems apathetic, gray, and uneventful. Everyone's lives on social media appear better, more fun, more interesting... and more alive. It's a comparison he makes every day.

His cellphone is his escape from reality, from truth, and from people—not out of fear, but out of disinterest in everything. Everything is boring. Everything.

"João! I've been calling you several times!" his mother shouts, standing in front of him with her arms crossed, irritation evident in her elevated tone.

"Get up! Go wash the dishes for me!"

"Okay."

João lazily gets up from the couch and goes to the kitchen to perform his task, but he takes his cellphone with him. He places it on top of the water filter, mounted on the wall so he can watch videos while doing the chore. After completing it, he goes back to what he was doing before. Typing and typing.

"You should give your cellphone a rest for a while; your fingers might fall off from all that typing," his mother shouts from the kitchen.

He shrugs, as he doesn't have anything specific he'd like to do or achieve, nor anything to believe in. He's just content to have his entire world in the palm of his hand, even if only superficially.

When a certain hour of the afternoon arrives, he takes a nap and upon waking, he returns to his dear friend, the cellphone. However, this time, there's something different: his fingers are more rigid and they snap with the slightest movement. Puzzled by this, he decides to watch a series to give his fingers some rest. Yet, as time passes, he feels his fingers growing stiffer, until they become completely immobile. This frightens him, and he quickly asks his mother to schedule an appointment as soon as possible with a general practitioner. As it's deemed urgent, he manages to secure an appointment for the next day at a private clinic in downtown Rio. The wait until the appointment gnaws at João, as he longs to use his cellphone. It's a pulsating need to type, which makes him impatient and irritable. To satisfy his urge, he resorts to using his elbows, which is rather clumsy at first, but as the sleepless night wears on, he adapts. Almost unnoticed, his mother opens the door to his room.

"Come on, boy! Get ready, we're heading out for your appointment!" She shifts his focus from the cellphone to her. His tired eyes are surrounded by dark circles, and his elbows are reddened from excessive use. The only light in that dark room comes from the device. His mother helps him get dressed, they have breakfast, and head off to the appointment. During the bus ride, João falls asleep with his head leaning on his mother's shoulder, only waking when she nudges him. They disembark, but oddly, his fingers appear dry, and his arms are rigid, moving like rusty tools.

"Mom! I can't feel my arms properly!" he exclaims in a desperate tone, his eyes welling up with tears.

"Calm down, son, the doctor will figure it out." His mother feels just as anxious. They hurry and reach the clinic for the appointment.

The doctor identifies it as a possible paralysis and refers him to a specialist for the respective issue. Over the course of the examination and waiting for results, his arms grow as dry as his fingers, as if no blood is flowing through them. However, only he can see this, no one else can perceive it—possibly a side effect of his subconscious. For a more comprehensive analysis, X-rays, MRIs, and blood tests are conducted, but... nothing.

"We can't identify anything, you're perfectly healthy. There's no way to explain your case," the general practitioner says after reviewing all the tests, completely astounded. There's no reason, no solution, only resignation.

"Will I be like this forever?" he asks, in a state of shock.

"Unfortunately, I can't say, but it might be something psychological, so I'll refer you to a psychologist."

Upon returning home that day, João locked himself in his room. He didn't want to speak or see anyone, but he wanted to type, so he used his toe fingers. Typing and typing. Nothing could make him stop. If life was complicated, he typed about it. If speaking wasn't possible, he typed. He typed and typed. He narrated his story. Even with typos and knowing that no one would read it, he typed.

The psychologist was scheduled for 7 days from then, but the routine remained the same. Five days before the appointment, his toe fingers became useless, so he used his tongue, but after 3 days, it dried out. Lastly, he used his nose, but that didn't last either. His breathing grew more complicated, so he was rushed to the emergency room, yet according to the doctors, he had nothing wrong. Nonetheless, he gradually felt his entire body dry up, his movements freeze, until he reached a stage where, so dry, his body crumbled into dust.

However, everyone could see what was happening. It was inexplicable. Afraid it might be contagious, he was isolated and studied. Unable to communicate, he merely existed and watched time pass. His inconsolable mother remained close, praying to God to heal her son. Meanwhile, he wished he could type a little more, for he hadn't written the end of his story yet, and so little was left. The adventure he had crafted day by day would be a story without an end.

João had never been addicted to typing, merely a writer who got carried away, and ultimately, he departed without being able to publish.