Have you ever read the contract with the algorithm? The one you sign every morning without noticing, with a distracted click as you scroll the feed, deluding yourself that you have control. In exchange for a few “likes,” it takes your time, archives your dreams, learns your fears, then returns tailored recommendations and pushes you to buy who you are not yet. It promises efficiency and personalization, but it doesn’t tell you that behind it lies a priority order: your heart is not a statistic, and your desires become ad campaigns. The contract with the algorithm is written in invisible ink, hidden among lines of terms and conditions that no law has ever fully read—because haste is its ally. Every app is a promise of freedom, every notification a new constraint. You feel at the center of the world while the algorithm decides who you are and who you can become. At your first disconnection, you feel the void—that silence you can’t buy—and realize you’re trapped in a design you didn’t draw. Yet you could uncheck a box, cancel the subscription to that constant suggestion, reclaim your uncertain steps, and recover that thought that refuses to be labeled. Then you rewrite the contract yourself, adding clauses of curiosity, of error, of time well wasted. Demand guarantees of wonder; insist on the right to make grand mistakes. Because life has no algorithm, doesn’t run in the background, and syncs with no server. It is a wonderful chaos, a discordant note that defies every forecast. And if the algorithm protests, you ignore it: you’ve signed your freedom in characters never digital, in a wise act of disconnection.