PROLOGUE
The Display Window
I take one last look at the reflection staring back at me in the mirror. Her chestnut hair falls to the middle of her back in perfect curls. Her face is symmetrical, fake freckles carefully placed, that cute little upturned nose, perfectly shaped eyebrows, heart-shaped lips, light makeup, a boho crop top. That "effortlessly messy" look—sprezzatura, they call it, because everything needs a fancy name in 2025. That look belongs to the perfect-faced girl I made up from scratch. That pathetic girl with empty eyes who judges me from the mirror.
I finally leave the bathroom, mentally psyching myself up to enter the room. The one where I film myself every day, putting myself out there like some damn mannequin in a display window, risking that someone from my past might recognize me. I step into the bedroom I built from the ground up. Heart racing with anticipation, I inspect my setup one last time: cameras—check. Lights—check. Ceiling LEDs, fake windows, carefully staged mess, artwork on the walls, plants everywhere—everything designed to look like I'm in some indie girl's bedroom on a lazy summer afternoon.
I sit in my hanging chair, placed strategically in the corner of the room with a perfect view of the controlled chaos. Clothes on the floor, walls covered in travel photos, the whole aesthetic in the background. Then I start the live. Finally.
I already recognize a few usernames joining the stream. I reach for my coffee table, cluttered with random everyday objects. My Stanley cup, a mini camera, a pair of sunglasses. I greet the early 615 viewers on my TikTok live and start talking about my day. A few harmless lies here and there. Comments about my looks flood in. No one cares what I'm saying. All that matters is my face, my body and I use it to my advantage. Gifts start rolling in: virtual flowers, mermaids, disco balls. Three, five, nine, twenty-four. I thank them all, fully planning to convert everything into money to fund this exact lifestyle. The routine.
A few minutes go by, and I keep the same rhythm. A couple of people request to join the live: @riva123, @user3452738, @marciaaa, @junie007. I ignore them all. No way I'm sharing the spotlight. I want all the attention, it's all I've got left: fame. As I scroll through the comments, I notice everyone mentioning a certain @Eren404.
@Martha32: "wow he sent 7 tiktok universes one after the other"
@user87477368: "he's going crazy lol"
I turn my attention back to the camera, smiling.
— Thank you so much Eren404, woah that's insane...
Comment from Eren404:You've been exposed.
My heart skips a beat for a few seconds. My breath shortens. I close my eyes and inhale deeply. I force myself to smile again, but a few viewers caught the brief moment of unease and start defending me. Some of them cuss out Eren404. I take the chance to check Twitter. No leaks, nothing trending about me or my content.
I was about to block this Eden404 for making me feel something real and throwing me off balance. But then I remember how much just one of those gifts costs and just like that, I decide it's not that deep. Big mistake.