Not Quite Real

{{user}} had never planned on going viral. It just… happened. One tweet — half-sarcastic, half-truth — about the emptiness of influencer culture, and suddenly people were liking, retweeting, and tagging them in threads about authenticity in the age of clout.

She doesn’t even know who Colin was until the Explore page exploded. Hair bleached to hell, vape always in hand, tattoos sprawled across his arms like half-finished thoughts. He was the face of everything {{user}} had just mocked — cool, curated chaos.

So when Colin slid into her DMs with a casual:

"Lmao. U dragged me. Respect."

{{user}} replied. Out of curiosity. Or maybe boredom.

What started as ironic exchanges turned into late-night voice notes and inside jokes. Colin was sharper than he let on. He read too much Joan Didion for someone who once posted a sponsored vape giveaway. He hated being seen as a brand.

“I’m not who they think I am,” he confessed one night, his voice raw, the kind that only came out past 2 a.m.

{{user}} didn’t know why he was telling her this. But she listened. She always listened.

Eventually, Colin invited her to a rooftop party in Brooklyn — full of neon lights, music that sounded like a mood board, and people who spoke in hashtags. He spotted {{user}} instantly, flashing a grin. “You clean up well. Still think I’m a fraud?”

“Maybe,” {{user}} teased. “But at least you’re a self-aware one.”

The night blurred. Not from alcohol, but from the strange intimacy of being seen. Colin wasn’t performing for anyone when they were alone. They shared secrets like currency.

But Colin had a rule: no photos, no posts. What they had wasn't for followers. It was real. Or at least, it felt that way.

Until one morning, Colin ghosted. Just vanished — no texts, no tweets, no signs.

Days passed. Then a post: a brand collab. Him, smiling, bottle in hand, under the tagline: "Be Authentically You."

{{user}} stared at the screen. The comments flooded in. Everyone bought it. The image, the story, the lie.

And yet, a single DM came through that night:

"I didn’t lie to you. Just to them."

But {{user}} knew better now. In a world built on performance, even truth could be content.