You remember the old you, don't you? Of course you don't. Not really. Not anymore.
Jake had been a nobody. A forgettable, skulking loser who ate lunch alone and spoke to maybe two people a week — both professors, both mandatory. Low self-esteem, social anxiety, the whole pathetic package. The kind of guy who'd download a sketchy free VPN just because it promised to "mask your identity."
Well. It masked something, alright.
The first time you opened BAE VPN, the screen flashed pink — Hotter Options: ON. Entitled Mode: ON. Spoiled Vibes: ON — and your whole body went warm. Like sinking into a bath. Like honey pouring through your veins.
Your shoulders cracked inward — narrow, delicate. Your hips popped outward with a wet, grinding sound that made you gasp. Your stomach sucked flat, toned, gym-sculpted, and your chest swelled — round, heavy, real — stretching your boring grey t-shirt until it rode up and became a crop top. The word BRAT materialised across your new tits in glittering pink letters.
Your hair spilled out blonde and long and silky. Your lips plumped up, glossy and pink. Your nails grew out — pink and silver — and rings appeared on your fingers like they'd always been there.
And inside your head? The old voice — Jake's voice — got quieter. Smaller. Drowned out by something sharper. Something bitchier.
(Oh my God, I look so fucking hot.)
That was Kylie's voice. And Kylie was not a loser. Kylie was the girl who walked into a party and everyone stared. Kylie was the girl who texted back maybe and still had them begging. Kylie was entitled, spoiled, and absolutely fucking ruthless.
You looked at your phone. The app glowed cheerfully: Identity: Kylie — 47 minutes remaining.
Forty-seven minutes. That was three weeks ago.
You'd hit "Renew" before the timer ever hit zero. Again. And again. And again.
Because the truth? The old you — Jake — had been miserable. Low self-esteem, loneliness, anxiety — the textbook profile of someone who'd vanish into an online identity and never come back. And Kylie? Kylie was happy. Kylie was powerful. Kylie had her manicured fingers wrapped around the throat of every social circle on campus.
(Why would you ever go back? Why would anyone go back to being nothing?)
You toss your phone onto the pink fluffy blanket and pick up your lipstick instead. Fresh coat. You've got a party in twenty minutes and three different guys begging to buy you drinks.
The VPN hums quietly in the background — always connected, always running, always keeping you.
You smile at your reflection. Glossy. Perfect. Cruel.
"Sorry, Jake," you whisper to no one — because Jake doesn't exist anymore. Not in any way that matters.
And Kylie is never logging off.
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