The summer holiday started with a thunderstorm—and with my computer’s screen going black, smoke curling faintly from its vents. The repair shop said it would take two weeks to fix, and I laughed it off at first. “Two weeks without a computer? No big deal,” I told my mom. I thought I’d spend my days reading, hanging out with friends, and helping in the garden—simple, quiet fun. But by the third day, I was staring at the walls, counting the minutes until evening, and realizing: life without a computer during holidays is really, really boring.
Before the computer broke, my holidays were filled with small, bright moments tied to that old machine. Every morning, I’d sit by the window with a cup of iced tea, open my laptop, and video call my best friend Lila, who lives in another city. We’d talk about our dreams for the future, show each other the silly things we’d found—like the time I held up a jar of my mom’s homemade jam, and she held up a drawing her little sister had made of us. We’d laugh until our sides hurt, and those calls made the distance between us feel small. Without the computer, I had to text her instead—but texts are flat, no smiles or hand gestures, no way to see the way her eyes light up when she talks about her art. One day, I texted her about how bored I was, and she replied with a sad emoji. “I miss seeing your face,” she wrote. I missed seeing hers too.
Then there were the things I loved to learn. Last holiday, I’d used my computer to teach myself how to paint digital art—staying up late, experimenting with colors, turning photos of my garden into bright, whimsical pictures. I’d even made a portrait of Lila, which she’d printed and put on her wall. This holiday, I tried painting with real paints, but it wasn’t the same. I couldn’t undo a mistake with a click, couldn’t zoom in to fix a tiny detail, couldn’t save ten different versions of a painting to pick the best one. After three failed attempts, I put the paints away, feeling frustrated. The computer had made learning new things feel easy, fun—without it, even something I loved felt like a chore.
I also missed documenting the little joys of the holiday. Before, I’d take photos of the sunset over the lake, my mom’s freshly baked cookies, the fireflies that lit up the backyard at night—and then I’d edit them on my computer, adding soft filters or writing small notes next to them: “July 10—mom’s cookies are the best!” I’d save them in a folder called “Holiday Happiness,” and at the end of the summer, I’d make a little slideshow to watch with my family. This year, I took photos with my phone, but they just sat there, unedited, unorganized. I was scared to delete any, in case my phone broke, but I also didn’t want to look at them—they felt plain, like missing pieces of a puzzle. Without the computer to turn them into something special, those moments felt like they were slipping away, unremembered.
Even the small, lazy afternoons felt empty. Before, I’d curl up on the couch and watch old movies on my computer—The Sound of Music, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off—singing along to the songs, pausing to get more snacks. Without it, the TV just didn’t feel right. The shows were either too loud or too boring, and I couldn’t pick exactly what I wanted to watch, when I wanted to watch it. I’d sit there, flipping through channels, until I gave up and went to my room to read—but even the books felt less interesting. I missed the way my computer let me switch between things: a movie, a text chat with Lila, a digital painting—all with a few clicks. Without it, my days felt slow, like walking through mud.
By the time the repair shop called to say my computer was ready, I practically ran downtown to get it. When I got home, I set it up on my desk, pressed the power button, and smiled when the familiar login screen popped up. That night, I video called Lila, showed her the photos I’d taken, and started working on a new digital painting—this one of the lake at sunset. It wasn’t anything fancy, just a little picture, but it felt like a piece of me had come back.
Now, I know I don’t need a computer to have a good holiday. But it sure makes it better. It turns texts into smiles, mistakes into experiments, ordinary photos into memories. It fills the lazy afternoons with joy, and the quiet nights with connection. That two weeks without it taught me something: life without a computer during holidays isn’t just quiet—it’s boring, empty, like a song without a melody. I’ll never take that old machine for granted again.