The library was dim and drowsy, echoing with the occasional wheeze of a broken air conditioning unit and the ragged sneezing of someone three desks back. It was just after seven, but Harry had been drifting in and out of sleep for an hour, slumped against the wooden chair like a marionette with its strings cut. The night before had been long, soaked in neon lights and liquor, photographing Sigma Phi’s formal — a ritual equal parts revelry and hallucination. A few molecules may have been ingested.
His phone buzzed in his lap — screen alight with the hollow affirmations of digital applause.
“Ur the man”
“Dude crazy shots”
He didn’t have the energy to type even a “ty.” Instead, he did what his fingers had been trained to do — open Instagram, check the surge. Five hundred new followers since last night. He blinked, not unimpressed.
Harry was coasting through the final semester of his senior year — a double major in English and Photography, though only one of those disciplines had ever meant anything to him. College had been less of an education and more of a brand-building campaign. Over the past three years, he had amassed over 30,000 followers on Instagram, selling the college dream in pixels — saturated snapshots of parties, golden hour portraits, clever captions, curated chaos. Frats and sororities hired him to manufacture allure and promote their image. He made them look legendary, concocting the perfectly curated posts and stories.
It worked.
Thirty thousand followers.
A steady stream of cash.
A reputation that shimmered like a prism — refracting what people wanted to see.
Now, there were only a few months left before the bubble burst. Graduation loomed like a shadow at the edge of a bright screen. He’d have to pivot, rebrand, evolve — find a new persona, a new way to package the same old magic.
But first: his senior thesis. It was due in two days — the culmination of his Creative Writing seminar. He had chosen the assignment that seemed easiest: a personal memoir. What could be simpler than telling your own story?
But that was the trap, wasn’t it? The truth had teeth.
So now, here he was, viscerally feeling the senioritis pump through each cell of his body as his spine ached against the stiff library chair. His stomach, empty save for a bagel and burnt coffee, growled in protest. Still, he rose, headed for the bathroom to shake off the fog. He stared at his reflection under the harsh fluorescent light — buzzed hair, dull eyes, jaw more defined than he remembered, a face that seemed borrowed from his parents but not fully his own.
Who are you when no one's looking?
The mirror had no answer.
He shook his head and laughed softly. It’s just the comedown. Overthinking. Write the damn thing.
Back at his desk, he silenced his phone, opened his laptop, and typed out the title:
Outtakes
Beneath it:
Scene 1 — Early Days
Nature or nurture? I always wonder. Is it the conditions we’re placed into or the code buried in our cells that determines who we become? Because if you argue for nurture, I should be flawless.
He conjured his earliest memories like rolls of old film — faded, flickering, familiar. Randolph, New Jersey. Sunny sidewalks. Lawn sprinklers arching like glass. Fireflies like fairy lights. A father behind the camcorder, a sister pushing him on the swing. An idyll. A curated past.
He cracked his knuckles and continued on.
I was raised by an Angel - no really. Her full name is Angelina Hartford, Angel for short. And she lives up to the namesake. Thanks to her I have an addiction to brownies and high standards for my girlfriends. Beyond being a homemaker and on the PTA, she did it all while running a small jewelry business on the side. My only grievance was that she was a little too tidy, but now I never leave my room without making my bed in the morning. Her acute attention to detail may have been the reason I need to punctuate all my Instagram posts properly.
He rambled on for a few pages about how Angel juggled the various activities and needs of him and his older sister, highlighting how selfless and devoted she had been. Which was mostly true, save for the fact that her name is really Jessica and she had never baked in her life. But in the story, she glittered — radiant, composed, maternal. He knew his professor — a mother of four, evangelist of working women — would adore this version. He’d get the grade.
This is what we fed him more than food, this is what he was good at - creativity. His imagination as a pathway to escape.
He was now entering Scene 5 - Behind the Lens, detailing his path to photography inspired by his father, the cameraman. The suave, handsome, magnetic figure who loomed in his subconscious. But it was getting late, and his eyes were beginning to flutter again and his words began to slip. His fingers hovered above the keys. Truth tugged at the edges. He finally gave into the itch to look at his phone - it was 9:15 pm. Tempted to retreat, but the deadline came closer by the minute.
His friends had recently been talking about this new website, LiveAI. It kept a live record of everything you’ve ever done online, could answer any question you have about outer space, write a business proposal, or be your therapist in a few short seconds. He had never used it since it wouldn’t aid his photography classes or creativity, and it was fairly new, but there was no better time to test it out than now.
Pulling up LiveAi on the next tab, he pasted in what he had written and asked it to continue the story.
The response came instantly — thousands of words, appearing faster than thought. A little skeptical, he wasn’t anticipating much to show up. Why had I waited so long to use this? He thought to himself. He began to read.
Remember the nature vs. nurture debate? If you saw a photograph of my house, my parents, my childhood — you'd assume I grew up to be perfect. But under a microscope, the lie unravels. There’s rot in the roots.
Harry froze.
Because beneath the carefully crafted aesthetic of a stable, loving life, I have another side. The one I inherited from my father. The attitude that could never be captured by a camera, the DNA that was hidden deep inside. I’ve never been good to my friends. I lied often, effortlessly. I never stopped to ask myself why — I suppose the apple doesn’t fall from the tree. The first time I caught my father in a lie, I was seven...
It was all there — the scene burned into memory, never spoken aloud. His father, not at work as he claimed, but stepping into Jane Bristow’s living room, soda in hand. Harry, watching from the window next door at his buddy Max’s house, video game controller slipping from his hands.
This wasn’t fiction. It wasn’t some coincidence.
How did it know?
The first time I understood my father, I was thirteen. I was dating Anna, but also Samantha. And then Olivia. The details didn’t matter — only the thrill. I told stories like breathing. And no one ever questioned them.
Telling stories with words was one thing, but telling stories with pictures was another. Especially when I learned that they’re used not to tell the truth, but because they cover it up. I could convince people that I was somewhere when I wasn’t. That my life was more interesting, more insane, than everyone else’s.
He slammed the laptop shut. He had never put this on the Internet. He had never spoken these words out loud. Was he still hallucinating? What were in those pills he took last night?
Sweat gathered at his temples. The broken AC groaned again like something dying in the walls. The sneezing man was gone. Everything was still. He rushed out of the library, bumping into the janitor as if he weren’t there.
His mind scrambled for answers. Austin. It had to be him — jealous, conniving. Digging through his digital history, feeding dirt into the machine. Harry’s hands trembled as he stormed through campus, booting over student protest signs like they were enemies in his path.
Back at the apartment, he didn’t care about his dozens of unread messages — girls wanting something, or maybe nothing.
He scrolled to Austin’s name.
WTF BRO
COME HERE RIGHT NOW
WE NEED TO TALK
No reply.
Adrenaline surged. His breath was shallow. He opened the laptop again, needing proof that he hadn’t imagined it.
And there it was — a new passage, typed in his own voice, like something dragged from the depths of his subconscious:
You see, the world wears its beauty like a veil — thin, shimmering, and deceptive. Nature doesn't warn; it seduces.
A toadstool glows crimson in the underbrush, flecked with perfect white dots like icing on a confection. It looks like something from a child's fairytale — whimsical, harmless — yet just a single bite can shut down organs one by one, in a silent, irreversible cascade.
Or consider the lionfish: its spines ripple like silk fans underwater, each movement hypnotic, mesmerizing. Its colors rival a coral reef — fire-orange, deep indigo, snow-white. But those delicate fins conceal venom potent enough to paralyze.
Even the sun itself — that great giver of life — shines brightest when it means to harm. On certain summer days, when the sky is too blue, the garden too vivid, the light so golden it seems sacred — that's when the air begins to suffocate you, and skin blistered by its touch begins to peel.
We’re drawn to what gleams. We trust what dazzles. And so, we let ourselves be fooled.
I learned this young.
So I became the man I knew they wanted to see — open smile, sharp jaw, clothes that spoke louder than I ever dared to. I learned to flex charm the way some animals mimic color: a defense, a lure, a mask. And if anyone ever looked too closely, too deeply — if they saw even the faintest outline of the truth beneath the surface — I had already prepared my camouflage. I could disappear behind it before they even knew what they’d seen.
He stared at the screen, heart pounding.
It was the best thing he’d ever written.
And he had no idea who had written it.
The screen pulsed with words he didn’t write — but which, somehow, belonged to him. A mirror held too close. A voice pulled from the throat of someone he never meant to be.
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