Oneshot

The girl scrolls through her messages, trying to escape the monotonous tasks of endless work. She is by now a well-oiled machine, barely ticking along from the countless hours of unpaid labour. She looks for anything to distract her, even momentarily. A desire for literally anything beyond.

Hope.

Joy.

Maybe even a freshly brewed cup of coffee. But not even this could quench the thirst for escape.

And so the girl continues to flick through messages. Doomscrolling mindlessly as to hope for a flickering hit of dopamine to escape, even if for a second.

A fear of missing out.

The words blur into an endless swirl.

Nothing of importance was missed. At least this was her thought, until she noticed a friend's sorrowful post. At first, she dismisses it, another message in the wall of text. But then she reads it again.

This time more closely.

For she had been bitten by a mosquito of curiosity. A curiosity as to the origin of why this friend would write such a despairing post. And so she reads.

She has to know.

Why?

Why does he hurt?

She takes a look at the message several more times. It is few in words but plentiful in meaning.

Loss.

Pain.

Sorrow.

Such are the emotions of a man who had just witnessed his football team lose. Seeing one's team, to which you have invested your heart and soul, fail to secure a win. Matches that should have been easily won, yet fell short. An emotional investment that betrayed expectations.

This is the cause of such mourning.

Seeing this, the girl realises that she can do nothing.

There is no comfort for someone whose identity has been tarnished in such a way. She may not understand football, but she understands when something you love ends in heartbreak. She has experienced it too many times before.

It’s devastating. The feeling of tightness in your chest. Misery to the point of wishing to cry. Yet tears are not flowing down your face. Perhaps to others it may seem trivial, but to her. She understands. As small as this may be, it still hurts.

No one should have to experience such negativity.

And so, thinking about how sad her friend must be, the girl feels sorrowful too. Sorrow for her friend who hurts.

She thinks. What can cheer the man up? She knows she cannot do much. She is limited by so many factors. But surely she can do something, however small, to cheer up her friend.

A joke.

Perhaps.

But no joke would ever be funny enough to fully heal the spirit of a broken fan. Still, she doesn’t want to give up completely.

If she can even get the slightest of chuckles out of him, brightening his day, even for a split second, would be more than enough. Any spread of positivity is worth more than sitting back and doing nothing at all.

The girl sits down in front of her computer and begins to type.

She begins with a dumb little joke, followed by a dumb large joke. Yet no Goldilocks joke seems to land just right. She tried some more, but the next joke was far from perfect. Another, a little bit too on the nose. A dad joke or two that were promptly removed and saved for another time. Try as she might, she continued to fall short.

Despite her best efforts, nothing seems to be working. She realises how hard it is to write a joke, to inject humour, especially when someone’s spirit has been deflated.

The passage of time continues to flow, unaware, until the growl of her stomach reminds. She turns her head to see that the sun has already set, and an uneaten lunch has been left cold.

How much time did she spend trying to make one joke, only to come up dry?

She hates to admit the answer.

Still, she holds no grudge. She may not have found the humorous response she needed, but she does not view it as a waste of time. She knows that the right joke will come to her eventually.

The girl continues to gaze out the window. The winter frost hugging the corners of the glass frame. The bright yellow glow of the moon illuminates the concrete courtyard below. Everyone has already retired for the day.

The girl looks to the starry night sky. Her eyes scan for the twinkle of the brightest star. Satisfied, she has finally found it; she closes her eyes. A moment of solace before she slowly clasps her hands, offering a silent prayer to whomever out there is listening.

For the sake of her friend, please let his team win their next match.

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The End