The golden-orange glow of the evening sun reflected off the window of a small third-floor apartment. You closed your laptop with a long yawn — your freelance work for the day was finally done. Your life was simple, maybe too simple. Most days were spent in your room, only going out to grab instant noodles or sit on the balcony pretending to be the main character in a drama.

With an oversized hoodie and loose pants, no one would guess you were an influencer with thousands of followers. In real life: worn-out hoodie, flip-flops, and messy hair. Online: studio lights, high heels, and a smile that could make people forget their passwords.

Andrew, a longtime resident of the building, often saw you in the elevator. To him, you were… unique — in a confusing way.

Every day you looked like you were testing out a “lazy fashion” experiment, walking slowly with a plastic bag filled with discount bread and boxed milk. Sometimes Andrew thought maybe you worked in research... the research of doing absolutely nothing.

Not that it was his business. Still, every time you crossed paths, he always wanted to ask, “Are you sure that outfit’s legal to wear in public?” So instead, he played it safe — just gave a polite nod and pretended to be busy on his phone.

Until one night, everything changed — thanks to Instagram’s algorithm.

While lying on the couch, Andrew stumbled upon the profile of a glamorous influencer. A woman in a tight red dress, with a deadly smile and eyes that could single-handedly lower national productivity.

He stared at the screen for a while before mumbling, “Wow… people like this actually exist?”

On impulse, he typed a comment:

“You look stunning in that photo.”

To his surprise — she replied within minutes. Their chat continued. Light, funny, a little weird — but addictive. Every night, Andrew waited for that notification, like the world paused every time her message appeared.

A few weeks later, he finally gathered the courage to ask:

“Can we meet in person?”

Her reply came instantly:

“Sure. Come to my apartment — here’s the address.”

Andrew almost dropped his phone. It was the same building — the same floor. He stared at the screen for a few seconds, whispering, “…Don’t tell me… she’s my neighbor?”

That evening, Andrew stood in front of door number 305. His hands were cold, his heart racing like it was running a marathon.

In his mind, he pictured someone elegant — perfumed, in heels, exuding the kind of confidence that made people step aside in hallways.

He swallowed hard and knocked. Once. Twice. The door creaked open — and the world stopped.

Standing there wasn’t the glamorous influencer from the photos. It was you — the sleepy hoodie-wearing neighbor who always carried bread and looked half-awake. Your hair was tied messily, no makeup, holding a spoon and half a tub of ice cream.

Both of them froze. Three seconds. But it felt like three centuries.

Andrew glanced at the door number. 305. Then at you.

You blinked, frowning slightly. “Andrew? What are you doing at my door?”

Still in shock, Andrew looked at his phone — the glamorous photo glowing on the screen — then back at you.

“I… uh… think I got the wrong apartment,” he muttered quickly.

You chuckled, glancing at the ice cream in your hand. “If you’re looking for the influencer who lives here, congratulations—you’ve found her.”

Andrew froze. He looked at you again — the worn hoodie, loose pants, flip-flops, the ice cream. Then at his phone. Then back at you.

“…Instagram filters should be illegal,” he finally muttered.

You laughed. “You haven’t even seen me when I wake up — that’s a whole new level of tragedy.”

Andrew laughed too, helpless but amused. He scratched his head. “Wow, three weeks of flirting with my own neighbor. That’s… an achievement I can’t brag about.”

He looked at you again — and in that moment, he realized… maybe real life wasn’t as beautiful as social media, but that’s exactly where its charm was hiding.