The house hums with silence the moment the internet dies. My husband’s War of Warcrafts freezes mid-battle, leaving his character suspended in some digital purgatory. The 21-year-old paces the kitchen, his phone raised high, as if a better signal might magically appear if he angles it just so. The 19-year-old slumps on the couch, glaring at a black screen where Netflix once streamed. Even the little ones, unaware of how the world works but attuned to its rhythms, turn to me with wide, questioning eyes. Their favorite show, gone. Just like that.

The fallout begins quickly. They drift, aimless, from room to room, satellites without orbit, until their paths inevitably converge around me. My laptop hums, its screen alive with the familiar glow of a word processor. I’m working, writing, reading, editing. No internet required.

“What are you doing?” one of them asks, peering over my shoulder.

“Writing,” I say, fingers poised over the keys.

“Why?” Another one’s voice chimes in, more incredulous than curious. Their sudden interest in my work is amusing. Maybe they think my words hold the secret to reviving the Wi-Fi. Spoiler: they don’t.

As a writer, these moments become both a challenge and an opportunity. The absence of internet strips away distractions and external validation, no social media likes, no quick Google searches to confirm a fact or spark an idea. Just me and the blank page, the essence of the craft laid bare. It’s a reminder of why I write in the first place: to explore, to connect, to create.

Soon, the collective restlessness morphs into something more primal: hunger.

“We’re starving,” someone groans, clutching their stomach like a character in a Shakespearean tragedy.

“There’s food in the fridge,” I reply without looking up.

“But there’s nothing to do!” protests another, as if the absence of streaming services has turned the house into a barren wasteland.

I glance around. Shelves overflow with books, board games gather dust in a corner, and sunlight spills across the floor, a natural invitation to step outside. Yet none of these seem to exist in their Wi-Fi-starved reality. It’s as if the ancient arts of reading and conversation have been erased from memory. I briefly entertain the idea of orchestrating a grand family game night, but I know how this will end.

Eventually, I’ll be cooking something, a meal that’s not really needed but somehow essential to stave off the drama of an internet-free afternoon. My family, I realize, has two addictions: food and the internet. And here I am, a moderate in both, caught in the crossfire.

The irony isn’t lost on me. I can survive a day without the internet, even enjoy it, as long as no deadlines loom. But them? I’m not so sure. The longest outage we’ve had lasted a couple of hours. I wasn’t home for most of it, which, honestly, might have been for the best.

Still, I wonder: if the internet vanished for days, would they adapt? Would they rediscover old hobbies, pick up a book, or dare I hope, help me cook dinner? Or would they implode, spiraling into some new, uncharted form of boredom?

When the internet finally flickers back to life, there’s no fanfare. Just a quiet retreat to their respective screens, the hum of the house restored. And me? I’m left with the faint memory of their orbit, wondering what might have been.

As writers, we live in two worlds: one foot in the digital space, with its endless tools and distractions, and the other in the timeless realm of pen and paper, thought and imagination. The internet’s absence reminds me of the value of solitude, the kind that forces us to look inward and rely solely on the power of our words. Maybe next time the internet dies, I’ll light candles and tell stories, embracing the stillness. Or maybe, just maybe, they’ll teach me how to play Warcraft. Who knows?

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