In this world, everyone's a mirror. Reflecting back at you not who you are, but who they want you to be. And in this hall of distorted reflections, there's Ethan. Ethan's the guy who believes he's the main character in a movie no one asked to see. He lives in a city that smells like regret and stale coffee, where the skyscrapers loom like judgmental giants.
Ethan spends his days crafting the perfect online persona. He's got the smoldering gaze down to an art, the kind that suggests depth but really hides a void. His social media feed is a museum of himself: curated, filtered, captioned with quotes he doesn't understand. Every selfie is a shrine to his own existence, every post a desperate plea for validation from strangers who scroll past without a second thought.
He wasn't always like this. There was a time when Ethan looked outward, when the world was more than just a backdrop for his personal brand. But somewhere along the way, the line between reality and reflection blurred. Maybe it was the first time his photo hit a hundred likes, or when a cleverly worded post went viral. Success, even the shallow kind, is an addictive substance.
One morning, Ethan wakes up to the glow of his phone, eyes already aching from the artificial light. He scrolls through his notifications, a digital roll call of people who don't care about him. Amid the likes and comments, there's a message from someone named Echo87. It's a simple "hello," but it stands out like a whisper in a crowded room.
He ignores it. He's got more important things to do, like deciding which avocado toast picture will get him the most engagement. Breakfast isn't a meal; it's content.
Days go by, and Echo87 keeps messaging. Little notes, comments on his posts that are eerily perceptive. "Do you ever feel like you're not really there?" she asks under a photo of him staring dramatically into the distance. He smirks and types back, "Deep thoughts for a Tuesday." But her question lingers longer than he'd like.
Ethan decides to check out her profile. It's empty—no pictures, no posts, just a default avatar. It's unsettling. In a world where everyone overshares, someone who doesn't share at all is either hiding something or has nothing to hide. Both options are unacceptable.
He sends her a message: "Who are you?"
"Just a fan," she replies.
"Of what?"
"Of mirrors."
He rolls his eyes and puts his phone away. Probably some weirdo trying to get attention. He knows all about that.
That night, he dreams of standing on the edge of a vast lake, the water's surface so smooth it looks like glass. He sees his reflection, but it's distorted, twisted into a grotesque caricature. He wakes up in a cold sweat, the image burned into his mind.
Unable to shake the unease, Ethan decides to take a break from social media. Not a real break, of course. He announces his hiatus with a long post about needing time to "reconnect with his inner self," complete with a moody black-and-white photo. The irony is lost on him.
Without the constant feedback loop of likes and comments, he feels invisible. He wanders the city streets, hoping to find inspiration or at least a decent backdrop for a candid shot. But everything looks flat, uninspiring. The world refuses to arrange itself into Instagram-worthy moments.
He stumbles upon an art gallery tucked between a designer coffee shop and a boutique that sells clothes no one can afford. Inside, the walls are lined with mirrors of all shapes and sizes. At the center stands a massive installation: a pool of water so still it could be a slab of obsidian.
A plaque reads: "Narcissus Reimagined."
Ethan scoffs. Mythology was never his thing. Too many lessons, not enough actionable advice. But the exhibit pulls him in. He approaches the pool and gazes into it. His reflection stares back, unfiltered, unforgiving. Without the softening glow of screen edits, he sees every flaw, every line. He looks... ordinary.
"Not what you expected?" a voice says behind him.
He turns to see a woman, her features ambiguous, as if she could be anyone or no one. "It's just a reflection," he replies.
"Is it?" she asks, a hint of a smile playing on her lips.
He shrugs and walks away, but her question sticks like gum on a shoe.
Later, at home, he stares at his own reflection in the dark screen of his phone. The device is off, yet it holds more power over him than he'd like to admit. He thinks about Narcissus, a guy so enamored with his own image that he wasted away. But that was a myth, a cautionary tale from a time when people believed in gods and curses.
We're more advanced now, he tells himself. We have technology, connectivity, a global audience. Yet, he can't shake the feeling that he's been circling the same pond, mesmerized by a reflection that isn't even real.
Curiosity gets the better of him, and he messages Echo87: "Why mirrors?"
"Because they show us what we refuse to see," she replies almost instantly.
"Cryptic much?"
"Only as much as you are blind."
Annoyed, he types back, "Listen, if you're trying to teach me something, just spit it out."
"Very well," she responds. "Look beyond the surface. There's more to you than what you show."
He tosses the phone aside. Who does she think she is? Some internet prophet? He doesn't need this pseudo-intellectual nonsense.
But in the silence of his apartment, her words echo. The walls seem to close in, adorned with framed photos of himself. Moments captured not for memory but for performance. He realizes he can't remember the last time he did something without documenting it.
Ethan decides to get out. He heads to the one place in the city where the digital world's reach is weakest: the old botanical garden. It's a relic, much like his dwindling sense of authenticity.
Among the overgrown plants and neglected pathways, he feels a strange sense of peace. No Wi-Fi, no cell signal, just the rustling of leaves and the distant hum of traffic.
He sits by a stagnant pond, the water murky and uninviting. No reflections here. Just the raw, unfiltered reality of neglect.
For a moment, he contemplates the emptiness he's been filling with likes and shares. The persona he's crafted is a stranger wearing his face. He's been echoing what he thinks people want to see, repeating trends, mimicking influencers who are probably as hollow as he feels.
Ethan pulls out his phone to capture the moment but stops himself. Instead, he turns it off and slips it back into his pocket.
Time passes. How much, he's not sure. Without the digital timestamp, moments blur together. He watches as the sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in hues no filter could replicate.
Walking back through the city, he notices things he hadn't before: the way light reflects off building windows, the texture of graffiti on alley walls, the myriad expressions on faces passing by. It's like waking up from a long sleep.
At home, he deletes his social media apps. The profiles can linger in cyberspace without him. Let the digital echo fade.
He sits down with a notebook—a real, tangible object—and starts to write. Not captions or witty one-liners, but thoughts, feelings, questions without easy answers.
Days turn into weeks. Ethan avoids the curated world he'd once inhabited. He reads books, visits galleries, engages in conversations that don't revolve around mutual validation.
One afternoon, he returns to the mirror exhibit. The woman is there again.
"You've changed," she says.
He nods. "I stopped looking at my reflection."
"Did you find what you were avoiding?"
"Maybe. Or maybe I just stopped needing to be seen."
She smiles knowingly. "The myth isn't about self-love, you know. It's about self-obsession."
"What's the difference?"
"One nurtures, the other consumes."
He considers this. "And Echo? What's her role?"
"She lost herself by repeating others, never forming her own voice."
He chuckles. "Sounds like social media."
"Perhaps the myths were warnings, not just stories."
As he leaves the gallery, Ethan feels lighter. The world outside seems less like a stage and more like a canvas, blank and full of possibilities.
He won't become a monk or delete all technology from his life. That's not the point. The point is awareness, recognizing the difference between living and performing.
In a world where everyone is shouting into the void, desperate to be heard, Ethan chooses silence. Not the absence of sound, but the presence of self.
He walks past a group of people taking selfies, their faces contorted into practiced smiles. For once, he doesn't judge them. He understands the allure of the reflection, the comfort of the familiar echo.
But he's moved beyond that pond. The surface may be captivating, but the depths hold the truth.
That night, he dreams not of distorted reflections but of vast oceans, uncharted and inviting. He's no longer afraid of what he might find beneath the surface.
In the morning, he wakes up to the sun filtering through the blinds. No notifications, no messages demanding his attention. Just the quiet assurance that he exists beyond the gaze of others.
Ethan steps outside, leaving his phone behind. The city awaits, not as a backdrop but as a living, breathing entity. He merges into the flow of life, unmeasured by likes or shares, untethered from the need to be seen.
And perhaps, in this anonymity, he finally sees himself.