Where paranoia becomes modern art.

Karl has survived the Final Flush.

Barely.

He walks through the house like a man reborn —

or at least like someone who’s pretending he is.

He makes tea.

He breathes deeply.

He even gives himself a pep talk in the hallway mirror:

“You’re a grown man.

You’re not jealous.

You’re enlightened.

A modern Buddha… with WiFi.”

For about three minutes, everything is peaceful.

Until…

He sees it.

The horror.

The nightmare.

The digital apocalypse:

RoseBloom is ONLINE.

But not texting him.

Karl freezes.

His soul leaves his body.

His tea turns cold.

His masculinity trembles.

He whispers dramatically:

“She’s active…

… but not here?”

He looks at his screen ten times, blinking like a malfunctioning Christmas light.

No message.

No heart emoji.

No “hi love.”

Just silence.

Digital silence.

The deadliest form.

Meanwhile…

Charel is chilling on the sofa, eating chips,

watching Karl spin himself into an Olympic-level emotional tornado.

Charel:

“Maybe she’s just scrolling memes, my guy.”

Karl:

“No one scrolls memes this long.

Something… is UP.”

He checks the signal.

He resets the router.

He shakes his phone like a remote control from 1993.

Still nothing.

Karl dramatically lies on the floor like a fallen hero whispering:

“Is she… laughing with someone else?”

Charel sighs, pats his shoulder, and says:

“Bro… maybe she’s just alive.”

And the curtain drops

as Karl’s phone vibrates…

…but it’s just the battery warning.

20%.

Like his sanity.

To be continued.

Because men + smartphones = endless comedy.

RoseBloom🌹copyright 2025

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