Buried in the Algorithm by Olivia Salter | Short Fiction

 

Buried in the Algorithm

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,792

The caption had to be flawless. Something witty but raw, something to make them pause mid-scroll.

“Calm before the grind.” No. Too cliché.

“How I stay grounded in chaos.” Ugh. Too try-hard.

My latte was growing cold under the ring light as I typed, deleted, and retyped. Finally, I settled on: “Brewing balance in a world of noise. ☕✨” Perfect. I posted it, watching the likes roll in.

My feed painted a picture of serenity. But in real life? My fridge was empty, my inbox overflowing with sponsorship deadlines, and Trey, my ex, hadn’t called in weeks. Not that I blamed him. He had warned me once: “You’re too obsessed with being seen.”

Still, the likes poured in, and for a moment, they filled the hollow parts of me.

Until the DM arrived.

***

At first, it was easy to ignore. A blank profile picture, no followers. User12345:

"Do you think they’d still like you if they knew the truth?"

I rolled my eyes. Trolls were part of the territory. I deleted the message and posted a new story—another “candid” moment of me laughing in perfect lighting.

But the message stuck in my mind. The truth? What truth? My life was curated, sure, but wasn’t everyone’s?

Later that night, another DM arrived:

"You can’t bury lies forever, Callie."

I blocked the account and set my phone down, but the unease stayed with me.

***

The next day, I was at the café where I staged most of my “morning routine” posts. I handed my name to the barista and took a seat by the window, arranging my latte and croissant for the perfect flat lay.

When the barista called out my order, I grabbed my cup, only to freeze.

Instead of my name, someone had scrawled LIAR in black marker across the lid.

I spun around, searching the café, but no one seemed to notice. The barista looked blank when I asked who’d written it. “Must’ve been a mistake,” she mumbled.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me.

Back home, my followers were turning. Comments on my latest post were cutting: “She’s so fake.” “Why does she always look so posed?”

I deleted the post and curled up on my couch. That night, the lights flickered, plunging my apartment into darkness.

***

A notification pinged on my phone. User12345: “This is who you really are, Callie.”

I stared at the screen, my breath shallow. I typed back, “What do you want from me?”

Dots appeared, then disappeared. My laptop screen lit up across the room, an open live feed showing me sitting at my kitchen table.

But I wasn’t there.

I screamed, slamming the laptop shut. The air around me felt heavy, charged. When I tried to turn on the lights, they flickered, then died.

Another DM arrived:

"Are you ready to see the truth?"

Before I could respond, everything went black.

***

When I woke, the air was thick and damp. My hands hit wood above me. Darkness pressed against my eyes, and the realization hit: I was buried alive.

I screamed until my throat was raw, my fists pounding the lid. Panic clawed at my chest, stealing my breath.

Then, a voice—not human, but mechanical, distorted—echoed around me.

“You built this coffin, Callie. Every like, every lie. Now you get to live in it.”

The pressure in my chest grew unbearable. “Please!” I sobbed. “I’ll delete everything. I’ll tell the truth!”

Silence, then a low laugh. “Do you even know what the truth is anymore?”

***

Faintly, I heard voices above me. “Callie! Where are you?”

“Trey!” I screamed with everything I had. The dirt shifted, vibrations running through the wood. A crack of light broke through, followed by Trey’s hands pulling me free.

I collapsed into his arms, gasping for air. The fresh air hit me like a drug.

“How… how did you find me?” I choked out.

Trey looked conflicted. “Your last post. You tagged your location. I couldn’t ignore it.”

My stomach twisted. Even at my lowest, my obsession with being seen had left me vulnerable.

***

Back in my apartment, I stared at my phone. Notifications piled up. People were speculating about my disappearance. Conspiracy theories trended: “Did Callie fake this for clout?”

Trey sat across from me, his arms crossed. “You don’t have to keep doing this, Callie.”

Tears burned in my eyes. “It’s all I have.”

“No,” he said gently. “It’s not.”

My finger hovered over the app. With a deep breath, I deleted it. The weight lifted, but not entirely.

As I set my phone down, a single notification flashed across the blank screen.

User12345: “You can’t bury the truth.”

***

The silence of my phone was deafening. Without the app, my usual distractions—notifications, comments, and DMs—were gone. The emptiness felt like a hole in my soul, but at least it was quiet.

Trey stayed for a while, helping me clean up the apartment. He was gentle but firm, guiding me through deleting old files, clearing staged props, and boxing up brand products I’d never even opened. Each discarded piece felt like shedding a layer of someone I no longer recognized.

But as night fell, the silence became oppressive. Trey was leaving soon, and I didn’t trust myself alone.

“You don’t have to go,” I blurted out, surprising even myself.

He looked at me, hesitant. “Callie, this isn’t about us. You need to figure out what you want without me being your safety net.”

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Thanks for saving me.”

“Always,” he said softly, closing the door behind him.

***

That night, I dreamed I was back in the coffin. Dirt pressed against my lungs, my phone screen glowing faintly in the dark. On it, the app had reappeared. Every time I tried to delete it, the app multiplied, filling my phone with infinite copies.

I woke up gasping, drenched in sweat. My phone sat on the nightstand, blank and silent.

But the next morning, when I turned it on, the app was back.

My blood ran cold. I hadn’t reinstalled it. My thumb hovered over the icon, shaking. Against my better judgment, I opened it.

My profile was intact, but it was different. My curated posts were gone, replaced with images I had never taken.

A candid shot of me arguing with Trey.

A tear-streaked selfie I didn’t remember taking.

A blurred photo of my reflection, distorted and hollow-eyed.

The captions were worse. They revealed truths I’d never admitted, not even to myself.

"I don’t even like coffee, but they do."

"I love the idea of love, not Trey."

"I’m afraid of being forgotten."

I slammed the phone down, my chest heaving. The line between reality and manipulation was crumbling.

***

The next day, I went to Trey’s place. He opened the door, surprised to see me.

“I think I’m losing my mind,” I admitted. “The app—it’s back. But it’s… wrong. It’s showing things I’ve never posted. Things I’ve never said.”

Trey frowned, his concern deepening. “Have you told anyone else about this? Maybe a therapist or—”

“No,” I interrupted. “They’ll think I’m crazy. Hell, I think I’m crazy.”

He led me inside, sitting across from me at his kitchen table. “Okay. Let’s figure this out. Did anyone have access to your account? A manager? A hacker, maybe?”

I shook my head. “No one. And even if they did, how would they know these things?”

Trey didn’t have an answer. But he stayed with me as I tried to piece together the timeline, searching for any rational explanation.

***

That night, the messages returned.

User12345: “You can’t run from yourself, Callie. You’ve lied so long, you’ve forgotten the truth. Let me remind you.”

I stared at the screen, heart pounding. This time, I didn’t delete the message. Instead, I typed back.

“What do you want from me?”

The response was immediate: “To see you.”

My phone buzzed with a notification: a live feed had started from my account. It showed my apartment—but not the way I’d staged it. The camera panned to my bedroom, where I sat frozen in real-time.

I stood up, my legs trembling. “Who are you?” I screamed into the empty room.

The lights flickered, plunging me into darkness. My phone screen was the only source of light now, and the feed was still running. Slowly, the camera on the live stream turned to show the mirror behind me.

In the reflection, I wasn’t alone.

A figure materialize behind me, its face featureless but unmistakably me—hollowed out, a grotesque parody of the persona I’d created.

“Stop it!” I shouted, whipping around. But the room was empty. When I turned back to the phone, the figure was gone, replaced with a single message.

“It’s time to face the truth.”

***

For the next few days, I refused to leave Trey’s apartment. He offered to stay home with me, but I could see the strain in his eyes. I was dragging him into something I didn’t fully understand, and it wasn’t fair.

Late one night, I decided I couldn’t hide anymore. If User12345 wanted me to face the truth, I would.

I went live on my account, this time intentionally. My hands shook as I stared into the camera. Thousands of followers joined within seconds, their comments flooding the screen.

“This is the real me,” I said, my voice trembling. “I’m not perfect. I’m not grounded or serene. I’ve lied to all of you, and to myself. I’ve hurt people I love for the sake of likes and attention. And now… now I don’t know who I am anymore.”

The comments froze. For a moment, the silence felt unbearable. Then one by one, real messages started coming through:

"Thank you for saying this."

"I’ve felt the same way."

"We see you, Callie. The real you.”

The screen dimmed, a final notification appearing at the top:

User12345 has left the chat.

***

The app didn’t delete itself, but I stopped using it. Trey helped me find a therapist who understood the unique pressures of living a curated life. Slowly, I began reconnecting with the world outside the screen.

One day, I returned to the café—not for content, but for coffee. When the barista handed me my cup, my real name was written on it.

As I sat by the window, sipping the coffee, I felt the sun on my face for the first time in what felt like years. The haunting wasn’t entirely gone; I still felt its shadow in the quiet moments. But I was learning to live with it.

And for the first time, I wasn’t afraid to be unseen.