Can You Prove It?

It always starts the same way: a notification I almost ignore.

*Ping.*

Another DM. Handle says **@apocalypticshitdisturber** - huh. Vague profile pic, no blue check. Could be anyone. Could be Him. Could be another idiot pretending to be someone I’ve spent a little too much time replying to on Twitter.

*Dammit. Again? Last time it was Maron, before that Sanderson.*

I roll my eyes, muttering under my breath, “Well, if it isn’t, I’ll just block and report another one.”

I’m on the couch, laptop balanced on my thighs, slouched forward so far my shoulders feel it. Sweet potato fries sit cooling in a paper carton next to me, one dark spot of grease bleeding through the bottom. My hands hover over the keyboard, fingers twitching like they want to hit the right key combination to expose this guy on the first try. My lip’s between my teeth. Left eyebrow up. The whole *I’m already suspicious of you* face.

> **Him:** “Funny how you keep showing up in my replies. Not saying I mind. Just wondering if it’s intentional… or if you’re some kind of social media ghost who follows me around by accident.”

I bark out a short laugh, leaning closer to the screen. “Yeah, okay, we’re starting with that.”

Typing: “You tell me. Where were you last weekend? I know the area well…”

> **Him:** “Couple hours outside Pittsburgh. Did the local history thing. Walked the mall- quieter than I thought it’d be. Felt like stepping into a film you’ve seen too many times. Even the escalator still works.”

My chewing stops mid-bite. My brows knit before I even think about it. *Shit. That does track.*

Typing: “My MIL lives out that way- supposed to be a zombie in the old movie. Day before shooting, her friend had an emergency. Whole family legend now. Zombie #13, lol. You?”

> **Him:** “Never took the zombie gig. Thought about it, back then… old habits. Didn’t like being looked at if I wasn’t controlling the scene.”

I blink slow. That “old habits” bit? My pulse bumps up.

Typing: “Okay, you’re either good, or you’re damned good. How do you take your coffee?”

> **Him:** “Black. Always. Except for one diner in Chicago- tiny place, cinnamon coffee so good I’d drink it without complaining. Haven’t been back in years.”

My head tips a little, involuntary. I shove a fry in my mouth before it goes cold. “Sure. That’s… oddly specific.”

Typing: “All right then- balcony back home, or just a wall of windows I keep seeing among the sunsets?"

> **Him:** “Both. Wall opens up. South view. Mornings are good- whole city feels like it’s taking a deep breath. Nights, if the air’s clear, you can see the lake.”

My lips part before I catch myself. *That’s a hell of an answer.* My free hand drums against my thigh.

Typing: “I saw you a couple years ago in Middle TN. You remember? One of those things…”

> **Him:** “Yeah. Nashville. Q&A after a John Hughes film. I was in black sneakers, black cap I never took off. Bad hair day.”

I smirk despite myself. “That’s… on brand.”

Typing: “Never did see you at karaoke. I figured you’d be in town that weekend we were visiting friends…”

> **Him:** “Karaoke’s a dangerous sport. You go in thinking you’re anonymous, and someone’s filming you doing a very bad Elvis before you can blink. I passed.”

A snort escapes me before I can swallow it down. “Okay, that *really* sounds like you.”

Typing: “Fine. I'll bite- I’ve been trying to reach you about my app- BettyBot By Dee. Star Trek-level altruism and decency baked in. I need help getting her seen- my voice isn’t loud enough.”

> **Him:** “Star Trek world? Utopia with caveats? That’s not nothing- you’re gonna have to sell me.”

Typing: “Trauma-aware, evidence-based, gives people a minute to breathe. Environmentally conscious, ethically sound, privacy-first. Year one’s under $100k, dev stack’s ready, Creative Director’s on, Lead Dev starting.”

> **Him:** “That’s… actually solid. Most people pitch like they’re doing a bad TED Talk. Yours sounds like you’ve been in the room when people break.”

Typing: “I’m patient zero. AuDHD, lifetime of trauma, grief, loss, and collegiate training. She’s built from what I’ve lived and I've already done $50k worth of work myself.”

> **Him:** “So she’s meant to work for them, not use them. Rare. So what's your price? How much to give her to someone you trust?”

Typing: “All of Musk’s money. Then I’d have the power to make real-world change. Otherwise she’s family forever. Legacy forever. No data theft, no sugar-coating, no diagnosis. Everything done right.”

> **Him:** “Big ask. But maybe… the circles move. Eventually.”

I sit back, a grin tugging one corner of my mouth. I never want to know for sure. That’s the point. You don’t know if what you’ve done will be heard or seen- you just show up as yourself whenever you feel safe enough.

Even if you’re on your couch, sweet potato fries gone cold, laptop screen glowing like it’s staring back.

---

*Disclaimer: All fiction, based on real scammers who’ve messaged me pretending to be celebrities. In real life, I don’t care about fame, which is usually where they give up.*