Late at night, I was lying awake mindlessly feeding my addiction and trying to escape my pointless life I lived. I wanted to change. I wanted to help, inspire and teach but I didn’t have the effort to make it real.
I started a fake account online. At first, I thought nothing of it, people barely noticed it, but it was always there. It was the perfect life the one every student wished for, popular, best grades and just living life to its fullest. Unfortunately, it wasn’t real. It was a hope.
During the silence of the night this “alter ego” would come alive “inspiring” people from my room. I was trapped in a prison-like room with dull white plastering hugging each corner of the room. The bare walls stretched and enclosed around me trapping any chance of escape I had. Piercing at the measly window, each beam of hope blocked by the dreary curtains that hang like prison bars. The once perfectly varnished floor smothered by each piece of clothing, I left there saying I would eventually pick it up.
Amongst the mess of a living condition, I sat with my eyes piercing down at my phone with full concentration trying to add the final touches to this perfect life. Each minor edit or change I made lured me away from reality. A sudden sharp chime shattered the silence of the room. My screen flashed, replacing my carefully edited post with a direct message from Jake – my real friend who had watched me slowly become more addicted to this “once a joke” life. He had sent me a screenshot of my latest post about productivity; alongside a real image of my empty desk, he had taken this morning when I skipped the first period. A second notification appeared. My heart hung low, fearful for the next words.
The simple words… “Are you for real?”
These simple words shot and raced around my head. They left me dazed. The cold weight of the words sunk in. I had no filter to hide behind. My thumbs hovered over the keyboard, paralysed by the sudden reality; the flawless digital world revealed like a puppeteer being exposed to his audience. My environment went cold and silent: no warm hopeful feeling, no fans humming and most importantly no thoughts in my mind.
I couldn’t make an excuse (being honest I didn’t have one). I never typed a response. Instead, with a shaky, unconfident and pale hand, I slowly lowered my phone face down. As I slid the phone face-down onto the dusty floorboard, the frantic blinking of the notification light faded against the worn-down carpet. Breathing a deep sigh of the stale air, I cautiously approached the grimy window and pulled back the dreary curtains, letting the pale moonlight wash over the carpet. Each worry, fear or thought slowly faded. I whispered beneath my breath “At least it’s real.”