It was just a dream.That’s what Emily told herself every morning when she woke up, trying to shake off the strange, lingering memories that weren’t hers. They belonged to someone else, someone who lived in a different world where every thought, every action, was broadcast to the entire globe.

In her dream, Emily was Amara, a famous influencer who didn’t exist in the real world but commanded an audience of millions in the dreamscape. Unlike the influencers Emily followed on her phone, Amara’s life wasn’t just online—it was reality TV, social media, and real life blended together. Everyone lived in a constant state of exposure, and privacy was an ancient relic, like cassette tapes and rotary phones.

But the strangest part? Every night, Emily would pick up where she left off in Amara’s life, navigating the treacherous waters of public opinion, carefully curating every word and action to avoid the dreaded “cancelation.” One wrong move, and Amara’s life could spiral into chaos, her career ruined, her relationships shattered. It was terrifyingly addictive, like playing a high-stakes game where the rules kept changing and the stakes were your reputation, your sanity, and sometimes, your life.

Yet, when Emily woke up each morning, she was relieved. It was just a dream, after all. She was just Emily—an ordinary woman with an ordinary job, with no audience to appease, no brand to manage. Until one day, the line between her dreams and reality began to blur.

It started with small things. Emily would see ads for products Amara had promoted in the dreamscape, receive emails about collaborations for brands she’d never heard of but Amara had worked with, and even stranger, people on the street started recognizing her—not as Emily, but as Amara. They’d stop her, asking for selfies, gushing about her latest “post,” or worse, angrily confronting her about something “she” had said or done.

“Amara, how could you?” one woman screamed, her face twisted in rage. “You’re ruining lives!”

“I… I’m not Amara,” Emily stammered, but the woman wasn’t listening. She pulled out her phone, shoved it in Emily’s face, and there she was—Amara, smiling seductively, captioned with something so inflammatory that Emily’s stomach churned. She had no memory of writing it, of course. But it was Amara’s account, her face, her words.

Emily went home and locked herself in her apartment, desperate to escape the madness. But every time she looked in the mirror, she saw less of Emily and more of Amara. Her hair had somehow grown longer overnight, styled in the signature way Amara wore it. Her skin glowed with the kind of radiance you couldn’t buy, only achieve with an expensive skincare routine—Amara’s skincare routine.

Freaked out, Emily tried to scrub off the makeup, but it wouldn’t budge. Panicking, she grabbed her phone, searching for any sign of what was happening. But the screen showed a feed she didn’t recognize—posts, stories, live streams, all from Amara’s life. And the comments—oh, the comments—poured in by the thousands, filled with adoration, criticism, envy, and hate. It was like drowning in a sea of strangers’ opinions, their judgments suffocating her.

She dropped the phone, and it shattered on the floor. But the screen kept glowing, kept showing her a life that wasn’t hers, and yet it was. She was losing herself, becoming Amara, or maybe she’d always been Amara and was only now realizing it.

Desperate, Emily—or was it Amara?—ran out into the street, but the world had changed. Billboards displayed her face, stores advertised products she’d endorsed, and people stared at her as if they knew her intimately. There was no escape.

“It’s not real,” she whispered to herself. “It’s just a dream.”

But deep down, she knew the truth. The dream had become her reality. The life of an influencer, the constant surveillance, the pressure to perform—it wasn’t just Amara’s world. It was hers now, too.

And there was no waking up from this nightmare.

Silvia Deaconescu

@Draconesa

Silvia Deaconescu has not written a story.