Love Without Measure

13. Shadow Followers

The ring light bathed Ava Monroe's face in a ghostly glow, reflecting in her eyes as she adjusted the camera angle one last time. She tilted her chin, forcing the perfect soft smile she knew her audience craved. Just a little longer, just one more take, she told herself. Then it'll be perfect.

She hit record.

"Hey, guys! Ava here—your daily dose of life, laughter, and a little chaos!" Her grin was dazzling, flawless, the kind that made the countless hours of practice worth it. "Today's a good one—brunch with my girls, an unboxing collab, and, of course, some exclusive tea from last night's event. You don't want to miss this."

The moment the camera clicked off, her smile dropped like a curtain. She leaned back, staring at her phone buzzing with notifications, each ping like a needle in her chest. Comments, likes, DMs—the lifeblood of her existence.

Again. Refresh again. Maybe this time it'll feel enough.

Hours later at brunch, the overpriced avocado toast remained untouched. Her fingers danced over her screen, scrolling, checking, calculating. Analytics, engagement, reach—numbers that defined her worth.

"Ava!" Her friend, Camille, waved a glittered manicure in front of her. "Are you even listening?"

Ava blinked, flinching. "Uh... yeah, of course! You were saying... something about last night?"

Camille frowned. "No. I was telling you... you need to slow down. Step off the treadmill for a minute."

Ava laughed, hollow. Step off? Do I even know how? "I'm fine. Really."

"You never stop. It's like the cameras are part of your skin," Camille said, voice soft but firm. "Do you even know who you are when no one's watching?"

Who am I when no one's watching? Ava chewed on the question in silence. It gnawed at her like a virus she couldn't shake.

That night, her apartment was dark, the city's glow filtering through the blinds. Her phone pinged with notifications she barely noticed—until one stopped her cold:

"Ava Monroe's fake. All staged. No real personality left."

Her stomach twisted. She clicked the account—empty, faceless. A troll? Probably. Yet the words burned. Why does this hurt? Why can't I ignore it?

Her thumb hovered over the camera app. Drama works. Controversy works. Desperation works. Maybe a tearful confession... maybe a shocking reveal.

Then the notification popped up:

NEW SCANDAL: Ava Monroe EXPOSED!

Her heart jolted. The link opened to a video dissecting her old content, comparing clips, labeling her a fraud. Views skyrocketed. Comments flooded in, merciless.

"She eats vegan one day, steak the next."
"Fake smiles. All of it."
"Ava Monroe, the illusion."

Panic bubbled, unrelenting. She drafted apology videos, deleted posts, tried to salvage what remained—but the faster she ran, the faster it consumed her.

By morning, #AvaMonroeLies trended worldwide. Sponsors vanished. Collaborations disappeared. The notifications still came—but now they weren't applause. They were knives.

I'm addicted... not to fame. But to their approval.

Her apartment felt colder, emptier, though the skyline glittered outside like nothing had changed. She stared at the reflection on her cracked phone screen, hollow-eyed. I can fix this. I have to.