Next to is not the same as next

At eleven at night in Damanhour, a student finishes the clip she meant to watch, and the screen offers her another before her thumb has moved. She takes it. Then the one after that.

None of them was a decision. Each was chosen by its position, by being the thing placed nearest to the last thing.

Shops have always understood this. The sweets beside the till are not there because they are the best thing in the shop. They are there because a person waiting in line, with a hand free, will reach for whatever is within reach. The screen simply put a till at the end of every minute of the day.

The question worth asking, a few times an evening, is plain. Of everything I could do in the next ten minutes, is this the best? Not the most available. Not the one that happens to be lit up and waiting. The best.

The honest answer is often no. The best thing might be the book she put down, the call to her grandmother, the sleep she will want tomorrow at eight. None of those is ever placed beside the last clip. They have to be chosen on purpose, which is exactly why they so rarely are.

Nearness is a strange way to decide how to spend an evening, let alone a life. It feels like freedom, because nothing forced her hand. But the shelf was arranged before she arrived, and she reached for what was in front of her.