Here comes that usual “how are you” — and at first, you don’t even get what just happened. Not a question, more like a ping: can you hear me? Is the line still on?

Back in the day, I might have typed something like “yeah, fine,” or even tossed in a little complaint just for show. Now my hand just taps out a short “ok!” — like there’s no other choice. The exclamation mark to keep it lively. Sometimes an emoji — feels warm, but like a toy fire.

For a couple of seconds, there’s this weird relief. Done, sent — contact made, duty fulfilled, the chat’s infrastructure still standing. But right after, something inside twitches: this wasn’t really a conversation. The personal stuff slips away faster than you can type a word. And you learn nothing about the other person — just a ritual safety signal, like flashing headlights from oncoming cars saying “I’m here, you’re there.”

If you try to remember even one time in the past months when you answered differently… it gets awkward. A long reply now sounds almost bold: what if they asked just out of politeness? What if they really don’t have time for details? This weird fear of burdening someone with your stuff makes you cut yourself down to the bare minimum.

This setup works well for both sides. The one who asked “how are you” doesn’t carry the weight of real attention; the one who answers “ok” hides behind a formula and owes nothing more. An almost unspoken pact of silence in the middle of the rush: we marked we’re here — now back to our own things.

The more you repeat this feeling-saving gesture, the easier it gets to vanish into the pattern where you could have actually shown up. I’ve noticed: once you write a longer reply to someone used to short ones — you immediately feel kind of foolishly open. Like you broke some invisible rule about how long you’re supposed to be.

The weirdest part — no one ever said this contract out loud. It just grew on its own through a million tiny deals like today’s: quick standard reply instead of real engagement, then move on. Being stingy with feelings is handy when the pace speeds up… But every time after such an answer, there’s a little emptiness left, like you quietly gave up something of your own for the sake of speed.

Sometimes the thought slips by: what if I risk just one word that’s a bit less standard? Would that start a real talk or just throw me out of the usual game?

And what if the habit of being invisible sticks strongest just when almost no one asks for real anymore?