Love in the Time of Wi-Fi

In an upscale apartment nestled in the heart of a hyper-connected city, Maya and Arman lived side by side, yet worlds apart. They were the perfect couple on paper—two tech professionals who had met in a coding bootcamp and fallen in love over lines of JavaScript and shared playlists. But that was five years and five hundred unread messages ago.

Their living room looked like a command center. Smart speakers, VR headsets, voice-activated lights, and a fridge that could suggest dinner recipes based on mood-tracking data. And yet, in all this “smartness,” their marriage had grown emotionally dumb.

Maya, once captivated by Arman’s ambition, now saw only his glowing screens and earbuds always plugged in. Arman, equally disillusioned, found himself scrolling through forums late into the night, more emotionally engaged with strangers' tech reviews than his wife’s tired eyes across the room.

“Dinner’s ready,” she said one night, setting the table.

“Just five minutes,” he replied, eyes glued to his tablet, tracking Ethereum prices.

She didn’t respond. She simply sat, watching the steam from the pasta fade like their conversations once did. A few moments later, she walked back to the kitchen, dumped her plate in the sink, and disappeared into their bedroom.

This had become the new normal. Love, interrupted by Wi-Fi.

---

It wasn’t that they didn’t try. Arman once bought a “Relationship Reminder” app. It pinged him twice a week to compliment Maya or plan a date. She noticed the pattern, though—how he always told her she looked “radiant” every Wednesday and suggested the same sushi place every Friday.

“Do I feel like sushi to you every week?” she snapped once.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t know how.

Maya, in her loneliness, had started journaling offline. A real paper notebook. Her therapist suggested it. Page after page, she poured out memories—of their spontaneous road trip to Hunza, the night they danced in the rain without music, the time they celebrated Arman’s promotion with street-side samosas. Now, she barely got a nod when she walked in.

She missed the man who once fought to be present. Who made eye contact, not just data connections.

---

One Friday evening, their power went out.

Total silence.

The smart lights dimmed to darkness. The speakers stilled. The TV blinked into black. The Wi-Fi router let out one final dying gasp before surrendering.

“Did you forget to pay the bill?” Maya asked, her tone half-teasing, half-accusing.

“No. It’s a city-wide outage,” Arman said, walking to the window.

She lit a candle and set it on the coffee table. Its soft flicker cast long shadows on the walls—almost poetic, like their ghosts were finally speaking.

“Guess we’ll have to talk,” she said, half-laughing.

“Guess so,” he replied.

They sat. Awkward. Silent. Then Arman reached for the chess board, dusty and forgotten.

“You still remember how to play?” he asked.

“Let’s see if you still remember how to lose,” she smirked.

For an hour, they played. Then they talked. Not about work. Not about apps. Just memories.

“That night we danced in the rain,” Maya whispered. “You held me like you’d never let go.”

He nodded, eyes softening. “I still would. If you’d let me.”

Something shifted.

With no notifications, no calls, no digital distractions, their emotional bandwidth was suddenly full. Arman spoke of his burnout, his fear of losing relevance at work. Maya opened up about feeling invisible, about needing to be seen, not just managed like another task on his Trello board.

It wasn’t everything. But it was something.

When the lights came back two hours later, they didn’t notice immediately. They were too deep in conversation. Too alive.

---

The next morning, Arman did something radical.

He turned off his phone.

He didn’t just silence it—he powered it down.

Then he walked to the kitchen, where Maya was flipping pancakes.

“Let’s take a digital detox weekend,” he said. “Just us.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“No phones. No screens. Just us. Like before.”

Maya hesitated, then smiled. “Okay.”

They spent the weekend in their own city like tourists. They went to old bookstores, held hands in parks, shared ice cream like teenagers. They had long, winding conversations that started nowhere and ended everywhere. They even got lost once, arguing over directions without Google Maps—laughing hysterically when they finally found their way.

And they learned something profound: when you disconnect from the world, you reconnect with what matters.

---

Weeks passed, and they kept the ritual alive.

Sundays were now screen-free.

One evening, during one such Sunday, Arman pulled out an envelope.

“What’s this?” Maya asked.

He opened it. Inside was a handwritten letter.

It read:

> “To the woman who reminded me that love isn’t measured in likes or shares, but in presence. I promise to log off more often—and tune into us. You’re my favorite connection.”

She teared up.

“You didn’t use ChatGPT to write this, right?” she joked through happy tears.

“Nope. All analog.”

They laughed. They kissed.

That night, they danced in the living room. No rain. No music. Just silence, and each other.

And for the first time in a long while, they both felt… truly connected.