This story offers a raw, visual journey into the phenomenon known as “bed rotting”—a self-imposed retreat from the world, phone inhand, as a kind of silent protest or escape. We follow our subject, a woman who moves through familiar routines only to dissolve intostillness the moment she steps through her front door.

She arrives home composed and put-together—makeup flawless, clothes chosen with care. But as the hours pass, we watch hergradually sink deeper into her sanctuary of solitude. Her once-vibrant face remains untouched by a makeup wipe, and what was freshand intentional begins to smear, fade, and melt into fatigue. Her eyes reflect hours of screen time—red-rimmed, glassy, veins beginningto surface.

Though she’s still dressed well, the contrast grows starker. The room around her begins to mirror her descent—blankets pulled tightaround her like armor, half-drunk cups of water, the blue glow of her phone illuminating her face in the dark. The atmosphere is quiet butheavy, a portrait of someone both hiding and unraveling in plain sight.