When Nobody's Watching

Before the Mask

It was an ordinary Monday in Jonathan's life, a 35-year-old man trapped between the monotony of routine and his digital escapes.

His day began like this: his wife, Celeste, was sleeping soundly to his right in their shared bed, while his three-year-old daughter, Heather, lay peacefully on his left arm. With calculated movements, Jonathan slipped out of bed, careful not to wake either of them. That brief and deceptive morning peace, in which he told himself that everything was fine, was his favorite moment—before facing reality.

In the kitchen, he turned on the light and made himself a coffee with toast. He did it with his usual lack of enthusiasm, fully aware the result would be the same as always. He took a sip and frowned.

"Well, another failed experiment," he muttered to himself, setting the cup down on the table. "The breakfast I make always sucks."
The black hole in his heart was so vast it swallowed any joy in his life.

Jonathan was a man who had lost the ability to enjoy simple things. Every aspect of his daily life seemed dull and tasteless—like his coffee. Yet that very dissatisfaction pushed him to explore other paths, even if they were secret.

At the office, his arrival was met with automatic, emotionless greetings. He greeted Julia, his coworker, with a rehearsed cordiality:

"Good morning, Julia. How are your kids?"

Julia smiled, happy someone showed interest.

"They're all fine, thank God. Yesterday I took Lucas to the doctor because he had a bit of a fever..."

But Jonathan had already stopped listening. While Julia spoke, he had pulled out his laptop and opened his browser.

He was physically present, but mentally disconnected. The rest of his coworkers showed genuine interest in the conversation, but Jonathan had neither the energy nor the will to get involved.

Instead, he browsed apps with little to no censorship, indulging his imagination and the darker side of his personality—like those gay apps that let you have a virtual boyfriend.

"If it's not real, it's not cheating," he told himself. But deep down, he had a profound need to connect with other men. It wasn't about sex—it was about a brief flash of connection, even if simulated. A chance to be himself, even if only in a fantasy world.

Curiously, those escapes, though seemingly unproductive, had given him unexpected knowledge. Thanks to them, he knew more about artificial intelligence (AI) than any of his colleagues. That knowledge became key when the institution's director proposed a training session on using emerging technologies in the classroom.

"I can handle this," Jonathan thought. "According to the surveys, AI is on everyone's lips, and I know enough to make this work."

Despite his professional success, Jonathan lived with a constant sense of impostor syndrome. He had used technology not to improve his life, but to escape it. While his colleagues praised him for the training, he questioned whether he truly deserved the recognition. Deep down, he knew his motivation came from weariness, not from a desire to contribute.

He also spent much of his free time writing mediocre novels he never dared to share. Writing helped him release pent-up emotions and cope with his aversion to social interaction. He feared that, if he opened up too much, his coworkers might discover parts of his life he preferred to keep hidden.

Still, not everything in Jonathan's life was work and digital escapes. He found small moments of genuine connection, especially with his daughter, Heather. Every night, he uploaded photos of her to his WhatsApp status, enjoying the comments from friends and family. Among them, Alex, a childhood friend, stood out.

"She's so beautiful, Jhony. She reminds me of the happy days at your grandma's farm. Remember?" wrote Alex.

"Yes!! You should come spend a day with us," Jonathan replied, feeling an unusual wave of warm nostalgia.
Sadly, Alex lived in another country and couldn't share the warmth of real contact.

Work continued, punctuated by tense moments with Julia and other coworkers. One day, Julia loudly complained after finding a dirty spoon in the office kitchen.

"Who left this again? We're adults, aren't we?" she snapped.

Jonathan glanced sideways at her, suppressing the urge to respond with sarcasm.

"What an insufferable woman. No one's going to die over a damn spoon," he thought. "I wish I could tell her to throw it out so the culprit learns a lesson. But since I'm a coward, I'll keep my mouth shut as always."

At the end of the day, Jonathan returned home. Celeste greeted him with a warm smile and his favorite juice. Little Heather ran to him and started climbing onto his chair, tugging at his curls while giggling.

"Ow, ow, that hurts, Heather!" he protested, but his face reflected joy.
His daughter's genuine smile reminded him that there were still things in this world worth fighting for.

"She loves you so much, honey," Celeste said, approaching to stroke his shoulder.

Jonathan tensed up, startled by the contact.

"I don't know why, but when I'm focused, I don't like being disturbed," he awkwardly excused himself.

"At least give me a hug. I made your favorite meal and you didn't even say thank you," Celeste replied, slightly hurt.

"I'm sorry, but that's just how I am," he answered, avoiding eye contact, knowing deep down he had hurt her.
He felt guilty because he came home feeling drained—the weight of wearing a mask at work sucked away his energy and left him miserable.

That night, after putting Heather in her crib, Jonathan let himself surrender to the calm. In the dim bedroom light, he watched his wife sleep. Her scent, the texture of her skin, and her embrace helped him disconnect from the conflicts that plagued his mind.

Though he often felt trapped in routine, these moments brought back a spark of humanity.
He drew closer and gently held her in his arms.

At midnight, Heather woke up and crawled into their bed.
She nestled against her father's arm, and he welcomed her with a smile, resting together like any other family.