PART 1: The Cost of Illusion

They say you can’t buy popularity, but at Influenced Academy, that’s a lie. You can buy it, trade for it, or steal it. And if you’re like me—broke, desperate, and invisible—you have to fake it until you either make it or break into a million pixelated pieces.

My name is Payton. Or, at least, the version of me I see in the mirror is Payton. The girl staring back at me this morning wasn’t the daughter of a struggling single dad or the girl whose sneakers had lost a fight with a lawnmower. No, this was Payton 2.0. The remix. The upgrade.

“Rise and grind,” I whispered to my reflection, practicing the smile I’d seen on a thousand “Get Ready With Me” videos.

“Payton! We’re going to be late!”

The voice of my younger sister, Nina, shattered the vibe. I blinked, the influencer mask slipping for a second to reveal the tired teenager underneath.

I grabbed my bag and headed into the kitchen. The smell of burnt toast and old coffee hung in the air—the signature scent of the Johnson household. My dad was leaning against the counter, one hand gripping his lower back, his face a map of exhaustion.

“Morning, girls,” he said, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He winced as he tried to straighten up.

“Dad,” I said, pausing. “Didn’t the doctor say you need bed rest? Your back…”

“I’ll be fine, sweetie,” he waved me off, pushing a plate of scrambled eggs toward Nina. “Got to keep the lights on. And besides, today is the big day. First day at the Academy. I’m not letting my girls down.”

A knot of guilt tightened in my stomach. Influenced Academy. The Ivy League of social media stardom. The tuition alone cost more than our house, and I knew—I knew—he had emptied his savings, maybe even skipped his own medical treatments, to get me in.

“I won’t let you down, Dad,” I promised, grabbing a piece of toast. “I’m going to make it big. Brand deals, sponsorships… I’ll pay you back tenfold. I swear.”

“Just be yourself, kiddo,” he said softly. “That’s worth more than any follower count.”

If only he knew. Being “myself” was exactly what had kept me at the bottom of the food chain my entire life.

The Academy looked less like a high school and more like a five-star resort designed by a tech billionaire. Marble floors reflected the ring lights set up in every hallway. The air smelled of expensive vanilla latte and ambition. Students didn’t walk; they strutted, phones held aloft like shields, narrating their lives to invisible audiences.

“Welcome to Influenced Academy,” a girl named Leanne chirped, appearing out of nowhere. She had a smile that looked surgically attached. “I’m on the social committee. You must be the transfer.”

“That’s me,” I said, trying to sound breezy. “Payton.”

Leanne’s eyes did a quick, vertical scan of my outfit. It was a budget attempt at high fashion—a thrifted skirt I’d altered and a top I prayed looked vintage rather than just old. Her smile faltered for a microsecond before rebooting.

“Cute,” she lied. “Let me show you around. This is the Content Creation Wing. That’s the Viral Lounge… oh, and over there is The Launch.”

She pointed to double glass doors frosted with gold leaf. Two students were being turned away by a bouncer. Yes, a bouncer. At a high school.

“What’s in there?” I asked.

“VIPs only,” Leanne explained, checking her nails. “You need 100k followers minimum to even touch the handle. It’s where the elite network. Speaking of elite…”

The hallway suddenly went quiet. The ambient chatter died down, replaced by the rhythmic clicking of heels.

“That,” Leanne whispered, “is Cass Valentine.”

Cassandra Whitmore walked down the center of the hall like she owned the building, the land it stood on, and the souls of everyone inside. She was flawless. High-definition beauty. Following her was a small entourage of girls who looked like carbon copies, just slightly less bright.

“497,000 followers on Instagram,” Leanne breathed. “She’s practically royalty.”

Cass stopped in front of us. She didn’t look at me; she looked through me.

“Leanne,” she drawled. “Who’s the charity case?”

My blood ran cold. “I’m Payton,” I said, stepping forward. “I just transferred.”

Cass finally glanced at me. She pulled out her phone, tapped the screen a few times, and raised an eyebrow. “Payton Johnson? 117 followers?” She laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. “Honey, the cafeteria staff has more clout than you. Don’t block the walkway.”

She brushed past me, her shoulder checking mine hard enough to make me stumble. The hallway erupted in snickers.

I felt the heat rise up my neck. It wasn’t just humiliation; it was panic. If I was a nobody here, the tuition was a waste. Dad’s pain was for nothing.

Then, I saw him.

Maddie.

My stomach did a freefall. We had grown up on the same block. We used to ride bikes until the streetlights came on. He was my first crush, the guy I thought I’d marry. But then his cousin—yes, his actual cousin—Jenna Ortega blew up. Maddie rode the wave. Overnight, he went from the boy next door to “Matteo,” the brooding internet heartthrob with a jawline that could cut glass.

He was leaning against a locker, looking at his phone. He looked different. Polished. Expensive.

“Maddie!” I called out, desperate for a friendly face.

He looked up. Recognition flickered in his eyes, but then he saw Cass watching him. He saw the students with their phones out, recording. The recognition vanished, replaced by a cool, practiced mask.

“Hey,” he said, his voice flat. He didn’t move toward me. “Long time.”

“Yeah,” I said, my voice shrinking. “I… I didn’t know you’d be right here.”

“Busy day,” he muttered, turning back to his screen.

He barely acknowledged me. The boy who used to share his ice cream with me was gone, replaced by an algorithm.

Lunch was a nightmare. The cafeteria served A5 Wagyu sliders and lobster tails, but the seating chart was pure “Mean Girls” on steroids.

“You can’t sit here,” a girl snapped as I approached a table. “Verified accounts only.”

I retreated to the back, near the trash cans. My tray shook in my hands. This was it. I was going to be an outcast forever. A waste of space. A waste of money.

“Yo, check out the new girl,” I heard a voice boom. It was a guy with a microphone, DJ High-Hype or something. He was livestreaming the lunchroom. “Eating solo? That’s tragic.”

The camera panned to me. I froze. Thousands of people were watching.

Cass sashayed over, sensing a moment to assert dominance. “Aw, look at her,” she cooed to the camera. “Maybe if she had a personality, she wouldn’t be eating with the garbage. Tell us, Payton, do you know anyone cool? Or are you just famous for being invisible?”

The cafeteria went silent. Every eye was on me. The red light of the camera blinked like a sniper’s scope.

I looked at Maddie across the room. He wasn’t looking at me; he was laughing at something Cass’s friend said.

Something inside me snapped. The desperation, the guilt about my dad, the humiliation—it all boiled over into a single, reckless impulse. I needed armor. I needed a weapon. I needed a lie.

“Actually,” I said, my voice shaking before I steadied it. I stood up, smoothing my thrifted skirt. “I do know someone.”

Cass smirked. “Oh yeah? Who? Your grandma doesn’t count.”

“Sabrina Carpenter,” I blurted out.

The silence that followed was heavy. Even the DJ stopped chewing.

Cass blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Sabrina Carpenter,” I repeated, louder this time. The lie tasted like acid, but it was addictive. “We’re… close. Like, really close. She tagged me in a private story yesterday. We were hanging out.”

A murmur rippled through the room. Sabrina Carpenter? She was currently the biggest pop star on the planet.

Cass’s eyes narrowed. She stepped closer, invading my personal space. “You’re a liar. If you know Sabrina Carpenter, why are you sitting by the trash wearing that?”

“She’s eccentric,” I lied smoothly, channeling every ounce of acting ability I had. “And I don’t post about it because I respect her privacy. Unlike some people.”

I shot a look at Maddie. He was looking at me now. Actually looking.

“Prove it,” Cass hissed. Her smile was gone. “If you’re such besties, show us the video. Show us a DM. Anything.”

“My phone…” I stammered, my brain scrambling. “I got a new phone. The files are on my cloud. I haven’t transferred them yet.”

“Likely story,” Cass sneered, turning to the crowd. “She’s faking it.”

“I’ll show you tomorrow!” I shouted. The desperation in my voice cracked the air. “I’ll bring the video tomorrow. Then you’ll see.”

Cass stopped. She turned back slowly, a predatory glint in her eyes. “Okay, Payton. Tomorrow. But if you don’t have that video… you’re done. Social suicide. I’ll make sure you never even get a like on a cat picture again.”

She walked away, her heels clicking like a countdown clock.

I sank back into my chair, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. What had I done? I didn’t know Sabrina Carpenter. I’d never been within fifty miles of Sabrina Carpenter.

I looked up and saw Maddie. He offered a small, tentative wave. It worked. For a split second, I mattered.

But as the bell rang, reality crashed down on me. I had less than 24 hours to produce a video of me hanging out with the most famous pop star in the world.

I needed a miracle. Or I needed to become the greatest con artist Influenced Academy had ever seen.

PART 2: The Algorithm of Deceit

Panic tastes like copper. It sat on my tongue as I sprinted away from the cafeteria, the echo of Cass’s laughter chasing me down the marble hallway. I had promised a miracle. I had promised Sabrina Carpenter. And all I had was an empty iCloud account and a social death sentence hanging over my head.

I didn’t go to my next class. Instead, I ducked into the AV Club room—the one place in Influenced Academy where popularity went to die. It was dark, smelling of overheated electronics and stale Cheetos.

“You’re blocking the projector beam,” a voice deadpanned from the shadows.

I squinted. Sitting behind a wall of monitors was Damon. We’d been lab partners in public school before I transferred. He was a coding prodigy who treated social media like a disease he refused to catch.

“Damon,” I gasped, locking the door behind me. “I need you to hack something. Or make something. I need… I need a deepfake.”

Damon spun his chair around, the blue light of the screens reflecting in his glasses. “A deepfake? Payton, you know those are ethically gray areas bordering on pitch black. What did you do?”

“I told Cass Valentine I hang out with Sabrina Carpenter,” I confessed, sliding down the wall until I hit the floor. “If I don’t produce a video by tomorrow, I’m dead. My dad’s tuition money… it’ll all be for nothing. I’ll be the laughingstock of the state.”

Damon sighed, rubbing his temples. “So you want to use artificial intelligence to deceive the entire student body just to impress a girl who thinks ’empathy’ is a filter on Snapchat?”

“It’s not for her,” I whispered. “It’s for Maddie. It’s for my dad. It’s for me. Just this once, Damon. Please. You’re the only genius I know.”

He looked at me, really looked at me. He saw the desperation, the fear. He typed a command into his keyboard.

“One video,” he said, his voice low. “But Payton? This stuff is addictive. Once you start editing reality, it’s hard to stop.”

We spent the next six hours constructing a lie. Damon pulled footage of me from my old TikToks and spliced it with interview clips of Sabrina. He used an AI voice synthesizer to match her cadence. It was terrifyingly easy. Within hours, there I was on the screen, laughing as “Sabrina” leaned in and whispered an inside joke into my ear.

“It looks real,” I breathed. “It looks too real.”

“It’s a mirror,” Damon said grimly. “Just don’t get lost in it.”

The next morning, I didn’t walk into school; I launched.

I uploaded the video at 7:55 AM. By 8:00 AM, my phone began to vibrate. By 8:05 AM, it was buzzing so hard my hand went numb.

Notifications: +1,000 followers. +5,000 followers. +10,000 followers.

When I stepped through the front doors of the Academy, the atmosphere had shifted. The silence wasn’t mocking anymore; it was reverent. Heads turned. Whispers rippled like waves.

“That’s her,” someone whispered. “The girl from the video.”

“She knows Sabrina. Like, knows her.”

I saw Leanne, the girl who had dismissed me yesterday. She practically tripped over her own feet to get to me. “Payton! Oh my gosh, I love your outfit today. Is that vintage? So chic. We saved you a seat.”

I looked past her. At the center of the hallway stood Cass Valentine. She was staring at her phone, her face pale. She looked up at me, and for the first time, I saw uncertainty in her eyes.

I walked straight past the lockers, past the general population, and headed for the double glass doors. The Launch.

The bouncer, a senior named Brock, looked at his clipboard, then at me. “Name?”

“Payton Johnson,” I said, holding up my phone. The screen displayed my follower count: 102,000.

He stepped aside. “Welcome to The Launch.”

The doors hissed open. Inside, the air was cooler, cleaner. There were plush velvet couches, a juice bar serving free smoothies, and ring lights set up in every corner. It was Valhalla for the vain.

“Payton?”

My heart stopped. Maddie was sitting on a leather sofa, a controller in his hand. He stood up, a genuine smile breaking across his face.

“I saw the video,” he said, walking over. “That was insane. You and Sabrina Carpenter? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it,” I said, the lie rolling off my tongue smoother than before. “I wanted people to like me for me, not my connections.”

Maddie looked impressed. “That is so… refreshing. Everyone here is so obsessed with clout. It’s cool that you’re just, you know, real.”

The irony almost choked me. “Yeah. Real.”

“Hey,” he rubbed the back of his neck, looking a little shy. “The Winter Formal is coming up. I haven’t asked anyone yet. I was kind of waiting for the right person.”

My breath caught. This was it. The moment I had dreamed of since I was seven years old riding bikes on 4th Street.

“Payton!”

The moment shattered. Cass Valentine stormed into the lounge, her heels stabbing the carpet. Her entourage trailed behind her, looking nervous.

“Cute video,” Cass spat, crossing her arms. “Very high production value. almost looked… cinematic.”

“Jealousy causes wrinkles, Cass,” I shot back, emboldened by the adrenaline of popularity.

“I’m not jealous,” she hissed. “I’m skeptical. Anyone can fake a video these days. Deepfakes are everywhere.” She turned to Maddie, her eyes gleaming with malice. “If you’re really besties with Sabrina, prove it. My birthday party is this Friday. Invite her. If she shows up, I’ll hand over my crown. If she doesn’t… we’ll know you’re a fraud.”

The room went deadly silent. Maddie looked at me, waiting.

“She’s busy,” I said quickly. “She’s on tour. She’s recording.”

“She has a break in her schedule this weekend,” Cass countered, holding up her phone with Sabrina’s tour dates. “I checked. So, bring her. Unless, of course, you’re lying to Maddie. Lying to all of us.”

I looked at Maddie’s hopeful face. I looked at the luxury room I had just entered. I couldn’t go back to the trash cans. I couldn’t go back to being invisible.

“Fine,” I said, my voice steady despite the earthquake in my chest. “I’ll ask her. She’ll be there.”

Cass smiled, a shark smelling blood. “Can’t wait.”

As soon as school ended, the high wore off, leaving only cold, hard panic. I had promised the impossible.

I sat in my bedroom, scrolling through agency websites. Celebrity Impersonators. Lookalikes. Tribute Acts.

I found her. “Sabrina C. – The #1 West Coast Tribute.” The photo was uncanny. With the right lighting, sunglasses, and enough distance, she was a dead ringer.

I dialed the number.

“Booking fee is $2,000,” the agent said, bored. “Cash up front. No refunds. She doesn’t sing live, lip-sync only.”

“Two thousand?” I choked. “I… I’ll call you back.”

I hung up, staring at my reflection in the dark screen. Two thousand dollars. We didn’t have two thousand dollars. We barely had grocery money.

I walked into the living room. The house was quiet. My dad was sitting in his recliner, his face gray with pain. He was holding a heating pad to his back. A pill bottle sat on the table—empty.

“Dad?” I whispered.

He jumped, hiding a grimace. “Hey, superstar. How was the first week? I heard you’re already making waves.”

“It’s great,” I said, my voice trembling. “Dad, I… I need a favor. There’s this… trip. A networking event for the top students. It’s crucial for my career. If I go, I could secure brand deals that would pay for college. It’s an investment.”

“How much?” he asked, his eyes tired but trusting.

“Two thousand dollars.”

He went silent. He looked at the empty pill bottle. He looked at the stack of medical bills on the counter. Then, he looked at me.

“This is important to you? This is your dream?”

“Yes,” I lied. “It’s everything.”

He took a slow, painful breath. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a checkbook. His hands shook as he wrote.

“This was for the surgery deposit,” he said quietly, tearing the check out. “I can wait a few more months. I’ve handled the pain this long.”

He handed me the check.

It felt heavy. Heavier than lead. I was holding his health, his comfort, his spine in my hands, and I was about to trade it for a fake celebrity at a high school party.

“Dad, I…” I started, guilt clawing at my throat.

“Go,” he smiled, patting my hand. “Make us proud, Payton. Show them who you are.”

I took the check. I walked back to my room, and I hated myself. But I hated the idea of losing Maddie more.

The day of the party, I was a nervous wreck. I had wired the money. The impersonator—a girl named Trixie—was booked. I had given her a script. She was to arrive late, wave, lip-sync one song, and leave immediately with “security” (two guys from the wrestling team I’d bribed with pizza).

I met Damon in the hallway before leaving. He took one look at my new outfit—a designer dress I’d bought on credit—and shook his head.

“You got the money,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “Where did it come from, Payton? Did your dad win the lottery?”

“Drop it, Damon,” I snapped, checking my makeup in my locker mirror.

“You’re changing,” he said, stepping in front of me. “And not in the ‘cool makeover’ way. You’re using people. You’re using your dad. You’re building a castle on quicksand.”

“I’m doing what I have to do to survive!” I hissed. “You don’t get it. You’re happy being a nobody. I want more.”

“You already had more,” Damon said quietly. “You had integrity. Now? You’re just a glitch. A deepfake of a human being.”

“Stay out of my way,” I said, slamming my locker shut. “Tonight is going to be perfect.”

I walked away, leaving him there. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t.

Cass’s house was a mansion in the hills. The driveway was filled with G-Wagons and Teslas. Music thumped through the floorboards.

I arrived with Maddie on my arm. He looked incredible in a tuxedo jacket.

“You nervous?” he asked, squeezing my hand.

“No,” I lied. “She’s on her way. ETA ten minutes.”

We walked in, and the crowd parted. I was the Queen of the night. People who used to ignore me were now offering me drinks, asking for selfies.

“Where is she?” Cass appeared, holding a glass of sparkling cider like it was champagne. She looked frantic. “Is she coming?”

“Patience,” I smiled coolly. “Stars arrive when they want to.”

I checked my phone. A text from Trixie (Fake Sabrina): Here. Outside. Payment received?

Yes, I typed. Showtime.

“Everyone!” I shouted, grabbing the DJ’s microphone. The music cut out. “I promised you a special guest. I’m a woman of my word. Please welcome… Sabrina Carpenter!”

The front doors swung open. Smoke from a fog machine (my request) billowed in.

A silhouette stepped through the haze. Blonde bangs. Platform boots. The signature walk.

The crowd screamed. It was deafening. Girls were crying. Phones were raised like lighters.

Trixie walked in, keeping her sunglasses on. She waved, blowing kisses. She looked… perfect. From twenty feet away, in the strobe lights, she was Sabrina.

My heart soared. I had done it. I had pulled off the heist of the century.

Cass stood frozen, her mouth open. I smirked at her. Checkmate.

Trixie took the stage. The DJ played the intro to “Espresso.” She grabbed the mic.

Now he’s thinkin’ ’bout me every night, oh…

She moved her lips. The crowd sang along, drowning out any imperfections. It was working. It was actually working.

Then, disaster struck.

A guy in the front row, too excited, reached out and grabbed Trixie’s arm. “I love you, Sabrina!”

Trixie stumbled. Her sunglasses flew off her face.

The strobe lights stopped for a split second, replaced by the harsh white wash of the house lights someone had just flipped on.

Trixie blinked, her eyes wide and terrified. Without the glasses, and in the bright light, the illusion fractured. Her nose was slightly different. Her eyes were the wrong shade of blue.

The music kept playing—Sabrina’s voice singing perfectly over the speakers—but Trixie’s mouth was closed.

The crowd went quiet. Deadly quiet.

“Wait a minute,” Cass shouted, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife. She marched up to the stage and stared at Trixie.

“That’s not Sabrina Carpenter,” Cass screamed, turning to the crowd with a triumphant, manic grin. “That’s a fake! That’s a fraud!”

She pointed a perfectly manicured finger at me.

“Payton lied! She hired a fake!”

Every head turned toward me. Maddie dropped my hand. The look on his face wasn’t anger. It was disgust.

I stood there, in my expensive dress, with my dad’s surgery money burning a hole in my conscience, and watched my world disintegrate.

PART 3: The Unfiltered Truth

The silence in the mansion was heavier than the bass that had been shaking the floorboards moments ago. It was a physical weight, pressing against my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs.

“Well?” Cass’s voice was sharp, slicing through the tension. She gestured to the empty stage where Trixie had fled, the back door still swinging on its hinges. “We’re waiting for the encore, Payton. Or was the ticket price too high for the real voice?”

I looked at Maddie. I needed him to step forward, to defend me, to say that it didn’t matter. But he looked at me like I was a stranger. Worse—like I was a bad investment.

“You lied,” Maddie said, his voice quiet but carrying clearly across the room. “About everything.”

“Maddie, I just wanted to fit in,” I pleaded, stepping toward him. My hand reached out, trembling. “I did it because… because I thought you only liked girls who were somebody.”

He took a step back, recoiling from my touch. “I liked you because I thought you were real. I thought you were different from them.” He swept his hand toward the crowd of influencers. “But you’re worse. At least they own their superficiality. You’re just… a fraud.”

He turned his back on me. That simple motion felt like a physical blow.

“Get out,” Cass said, smiling the smile of a victor standing over a corpse. “And take your fake reputation with you. You’re done, Payton. You’re canceled.”

The phones were all up now. Hundreds of lenses. Flashlights blinding me. I could see the livestreams, the comments rolling in real-time on screens facing me.

#FakeSabrina. #Cringe. #PaytonIsOver.

I didn’t walk out; I ran. I ran past the G-Wagons, down the winding driveway, and into the dark, cold street. I ran until my lungs burned and my heels broke, forcing me to kick them off and run barefoot on the asphalt.

I had spent $2,000 to buy popularity. And all I had bought was a front-row seat to my own destruction.

The Uber ride home was a blur of tears and notifications. My phone was blowing up, but not with love. My follower count hadn’t dropped—it had skyrocketed. People love a train wreck. They were following to laugh, to mock, to witness the fall of the girl who tried too hard.

I scrolled through the comments, each one a jagged shard of glass. “Imagine faking a celeb for clout.” “Her poor dad probably paid for this.”

That comment stopped my heart. Dad.

The car pulled up to our small, dark house. The contrast to the mansion I had just fled was stark. I wiped my face, trying to compose myself. I had to tell him. I had to confess that I’d wasted his surgery money on a humiliating lie.

I pushed the front door open. “Dad? I’m home.”

Silence.

“Dad?”

I walked into the living room. The TV was on, playing a mute infomercial.

Then I saw him.

He was on the floor, curled on his side near the kitchen island. One hand was gripping the edge of the counter, his knuckles white. His face was pressed against the linoleum, pale and beaded with sweat.

“Dad!” I screamed, dropping my bag. I slid across the floor to him. “Dad, what happened? Is it your back?”

He opened his eyes, groaning through grit teeth. “I… I tried to reach the water,” he gasped, his voice thin and strained. “Spasm. Locked up. Can’t move.”

“I’m calling 911,” I sobbed, fumbling for my phone.

“No,” he wheezed, grabbing my wrist with surprising strength. “No ambulance. Too expensive. Just… help me to the chair. I have the pills.”

“The pills are gone, Dad! You finished them!”

“There’s an emergency stash… in my drawer. Help me up.”

It took ten minutes to move him ten feet. Every inch was agony for him, and every groan he suppressed was a dagger in my heart. I was small, but adrenaline gave me strength. I hauled him onto the recliner, propping pillows behind him. I found the pills, gave him water, and watched as the color slowly returned to his face.

He looked so old. So tired.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “I didn’t want to ruin your big night. Did you have fun? Did you make the connections?”

I looked at him—broken, in pain, sacrificing his body so I could play pretend with rich kids who hated me.

I fell to my knees beside the chair, burying my face in his blanket. The sobs ripped out of me, ugly and raw.

“I wasted it,” I choked out. “I wasted the money, Dad. The check you gave me… I didn’t use it for a networking trip. I used it to hire a lookalike. To impress a boy. To impress people who don’t care if I live or die.”

I looked up at him, tears streaming down my face. “I stole your surgery from you. I’m a monster.”

My dad looked at me for a long time. There was no anger in his eyes, only a profound sadness. He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my forehead.

“You’re not a monster, Payton,” he said softly. “You’re lost. I failed you. I made you feel like you weren’t enough just as you are.”

“No, you didn’t,” I cried. “I did this. I wanted to be them so bad. But they’re hollow, Dad. They’re empty. And now… now everyone knows I’m a liar.”

“The truth is a powerful thing,” he murmured, the medication beginning to pull him toward sleep. “It breaks things down, yes. But it’s the only thing you can build on. You have to decide who you want to be when you wake up tomorrow. The girl who pretends? Or the girl who fixes it?”

He drifted off, his breathing hitching every few seconds.

I sat on the floor in the dark, staring at my phone. The notifications were still rolling in. The world was laughing at me.

I stood up. I walked to my room. I looked at the designer clothes, the ring light, the makeup. It all looked like a costume for a play I didn’t want to be in anymore.

I set up the ring light one last time. I sat in front of it, no makeup, eyes puffy, hair a mess. I hit record.

“My name is Payton,” I said to the camera. “And everything you know about me is a lie.”

I didn’t sleep. I spent the night packing. The designer dress went into a box. The expensive bag. The shoes. I listed everything on a resale app. Urgent sale.

Then, I posted the video.

It wasn’t a “apology video” with fake tears and a gray hoodie. It was a confession. I explained everything. The pressure. The insecurity. The deepfake. And, most importantly, the money. I told the world that my father was sleeping in a chair because I had spent his medical fund on five minutes of validation.

“I don’t care if you follow me,” I said into the lens. “I don’t care if you like me. I just want to pay him back. I’m selling everything I bought. I’m getting a job. And I’m sorry. Not to you… but to the people I actually hurt.”

I uploaded it and put the phone away.

The next morning at school was supposed to be a gauntlet. I expected insults. I expected trash thrown at me.

When I walked through the doors, wearing my old jeans and the sneakers that had lost the fight with the lawnmower, the hallway went quiet. But it wasn’t the mockery of yesterday.

Leanne was there. She looked at me, not with disdain, but with confusion.

“I saw your video,” she said.

“Go ahead,” I said, gripping my backpack straps. “Laugh.”

“I’m not laughing,” she said quietly. “My mom… she has back issues too. We lost our insurance last year. It sucks.”

She walked away, leaving me stunned.

I went to my locker. Standing there was Damon. He looked tired, like he’d been up all night too.

“You trended,” he said simply.

“I know. #FakeSabrina.”

“No,” Damon said, showing me his phone. “#RealPayton.”

I looked at the screen. My confession video had millions of views. But the comments… they were different.

“Finally, someone at that school is honest.” “This is heartbreaking. We need to help her dad.” “Respect for owning it.”

And then, the notification that made my breath catch. A verified blue checkmark.

@SabrinaCarpenter: We all make mistakes, babe. It takes guts to own them. Sending love to your pops. Get him better.

I stared at the screen. The real Sabrina. She hadn’t sued me. She hadn’t mocked me. She had seen the human being behind the cringe.

“The internet is weird,” Damon said, a small smile playing on his lips. “Vulnerability goes viral faster than vanity.”

“Payton?”

I turned. Maddie was standing there. He looked impeccable as always, but his eyes were darting around, checking who was watching.

“I saw the post,” he said, stepping closer, putting on his charm like a coat. “That was brave. Seriously. My engagement on your topic is insane right now. Maybe we could… do a follow-up video? Like, a redemption arc? People love a comeback story.”

I looked at him. Really looked at him. He wasn’t seeing me. He was seeing a content strategy. He was seeing a trend he could hop on.

“No,” I said.

Maddie blinked. “What?”

“No,” I repeated, closing my locker. “I’m not content, Maddie. And neither is my dad. I’m done with the arc. I’m just living my life now.”

“But… we could be King and Queen of the Winter Formal,” he stammered. “You’re famous now. For real.”

“I don’t want to be Queen,” I said, hoisting my bag onto my shoulder. I looked at Damon. “I think I’d rather be a Science Officer. Or whatever you guys are in Star Trek.”

Damon grinned, pushing his glasses up. “First Officer. And the position is open.”

I turned back to Maddie. “Good luck, Maddie. I hope the algorithm loves you. Because I don’t think you know how to love anything else.”

I walked away. And for the first time in my life, I didn’t care who was watching.

It took three months.

Between selling the luxury goods, working double shifts at the local diner, and—surprisingly—the revenue from my social media (which I now used to review budget-friendly fashion and share real stories about caring for a sick parent), I made the $2,000 back. And then some.

The morning of Dad’s surgery, the waiting room was sterile and cold, but I felt warm.

“Family of Mr. Johnson?” the doctor called out.

I stood up, Damon standing right beside me.

“He’s in recovery,” the doctor smiled. “The surgery was a complete success. The nerve compression is gone. He’s going to walk pain-free for the first time in years.”

I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding since the first day of school. I slumped into the plastic chair, covering my face with my hands.

“You did it,” Damon said, handing me a coffee.

“We did it,” I corrected. “You helped me set up the resale site.”

Later, when I went into the recovery room, Dad was groggy but smiling.

“Hey, superstar,” he slurred.

“Hey, Dad.” I took his hand.

“Did you… did you become popular?” he asked, his eyes drifting shut.

I thought about the thousands of followers who now tuned in not for a fake celebrity connection, but to hear me talk about anxiety, money struggles, and taking care of family. I thought about Damon, who was waiting in the lobby with a pile of homework for us to do.

“No, Dad,” I said, kissing his forehead. “I became something better.”

“What’s that?”

“Myself.”

I walked out of the hospital into the bright afternoon sun. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A notification from Instagram. I didn’t check it. I didn’t need to. The world was happening right in front of me, in high definition, no filter required.

And it was beautiful.