Sophia
...

Laurel’s silent treatment hits me harder than I expected. I should be used to it by now—people coming in and out of my life, losing interest or ghosting when things get complicated. But for some reason, her sudden cold shoulder leaves a deeper ache than I thought possible.

Maybe because it felt like we had something. Not entirely romantic, but... real. I thought she cared.

Now, she doesn’t return my texts. Doesn’t check in like she used to. She’s just... gone. Like Frank.

And that makes it worse.

I try to distract myself with work, which, lately, has been busier than ever. My online persona is blowing up, which should make me feel something.

Pride, maybe. Excitement?

But it doesn’t. Instead, it feels like I’m sinking deeper into a version of myself I don’t want to be anymore.

People want more, they want mode photos, more videos, more interaction. It’s like they can’t get enough, and I’m good at giving them what they want. The flirty, sultry Sophia they know and pay for. She’s perfect—always on, always sexy, always... fake.

But pretending to be her all the time is exhausting.

I hate it.

It leaves me feeling hollow, like the more I fake it, the less there is of me left. And now, with Frank gone, with Laurel gone, and Dana growing more overbearing by the day, I feel more alone than ever.

I don’t let myself cry, though. I can’t. If I break, all hell falls apart.

So, I keep going. I maintain the facade, smile through the camera, answer messages from clients who only see me as this perfect, untouchable fantasy.

It’s easier that way—keeping everything at arm’s length, not letting anyone in. No one ever asks how I’m really doing, anyway, they don’t care.

Except one day, someone does.

It’s just a random message on my site, buried between all the usual junk. Users with stupid names commenting on my body, making requests for content I’ll never do. But this one stands out. There’s no profile picture, just a username: Watcher.

I almost ignore it at first, but something about the message stops me.

Watcher: How are you doing?

It’s simple and short. No compliments about how hot I am, no demands for videos or pictures. Just... a question.

I stare at the screen, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. I’m not sure why it feels different. I get a lot of messages every day, and most of them go right over my head. But this one… it's not like them.

Like there’s someone on the other side of the screen who actually wants to know how I'm doing.

I type out a response before I can second-guess it.

Me: I’m fine.

I send, then immediately regret it. Of course, I’m not fine. But what else am I supposed to say? I don’t even know who this person is.

The reply comes back almost instantly.

Watcher: Are you really?

I blink at the screen, my heart sinking to my stomach.

Who is this person? Why do they care? It has to be some kind of trick, right? A catfish, maybe, or someone trying to get close to me for the wrong reasons.

But then again, maybe they’re not. Maybe they actually want to talk to me. It's not everyone on these adult sites who is looking to bust a nut or run the bean, some are lonely and they just want people to talk to.

But against my better judgment, I respond again.

Me: I’m not

There’s a long pause before the next message pops up.

Watcher: I’m sorry to hear that. Do you want to talk about it?

I wince. It's weird. Why would I want to talk to someone I barely know? But again, isn't that the point? Maybe it’s stupid. I know I shouldn’t trust anyone online—especially not someone who could be pretending to care just to mess with me. But I can’t help it. This is the first time in a long time someone’s asked me how I’m doing, and it feels like a lifeline.

I start talking to Watcher more. At first, it’s slow and basic. I keep things surface-level, never giving away too much. But over time, I find myself opening up. I tell them about my day, about the pressure I’m under, about how it feels to have everyone want something from me but never really want me.

The level of personal I'm getting with Watcher is scary but it's through the screen. There's no way we can meet and I'd cringe for all I said.

Watcher is patient. They never push for more, never ask for anything in return. It’s always just about me. How I’m doing, how I’m feeling. It’s almost like therapy, except I don’t have to see their face or worry about them judging me.

I know I should stop. I know there’s a good chance this person isn’t who they say they are. Maybe they’re just some creep trying to worm their way into my life. But I can’t bring myself to end it because for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel so alone.

I hide it from Dana, of course. She wouldn’t understand. She’s already on edge about how much attention I’m getting online. She keeps reminding me that the cartel is watching, that they don’t like it when someone steps out of line or draws too much attention.

She’s not wrong. The more famous I get, the more I’m on their radar. But they wanted me to be doing this. 

I can’t let her find out about Watcher. She’d flip out. She’s already on my case about everything else—where I go, who I talk to, how I manage my accounts. She’s more controlling than ever now that Frank’s gone.

I can’t breathe without her checking up on me, and it’s driving me insane.

But Watcher... they’re different. I don’t know if it’s a he or a she or someone in between, and I don’t really care. All I know is that they make me feel seen in a way no one else does. Like I’m more than just a body on a screen.

Like I matter.

One night, after Dana goes to bed, I find myself staring at my phone, waiting for Watcher to message me. I hate how much I’ve come to rely on this.

How much I look forward to these little conversations but it’s the only thing keeping me sane right now.

The message finally comes.

Watcher: How was your day?

I smile, a small, and type back.

Me: It was okay. Just busy.

Watcher: That’s good. Did you do anything fun?

I hesitate for a second before typing out the truth.

Me: Not really, I just worked. I feel kind of... empty.

There’s a long pause that makes me anxious. Did I say too much?

But then the reply comes.

Watcher: I’m sorry. I wish I could help.

It feels like Watcher actually cares and right now, that’s more than enough.

You already are. I type back.

As soon as I hit send, I feel a pang of guilt. I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be leaning on someone I don’t even know, someone who could be playing me. But at the same time, I can’t stop. I need this. I need them.

I keep the conversation going for another hour before finally saying goodnight and setting my phone down. As I lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling, I try to push away the gnawing feeling in my gut.

Dana’s right about one thing—this can’t last forever. Sooner or later, the cartel will notice. Sooner or later, this will all come crashing down. But for now, I’ll take what I can get. I’ll hold on to this one thing that makes me feel like I’m more than just a tool, more than just a product.

For now, Watcher is the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.

And I’m not ready to let go.

For some reason, Laurel's smile pops up in my head and that's the only way I get to sleep.

+++

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