Delete Me If You Can

It started with a tag.

Nothing unusual — just a photo of me and a few friends from college, posted by someone named @TheRealSophieBlack.

Except I am Sophie Black.

And I didn’t post it.

The account looked just like mine — same photos, same followers, even the same bio:

"Recovering coffee addict ☕ // Book hoarder 📚 // Still learning to breathe 🌿"

But it wasn’t mine.

Because my real account had been deleted six months ago — after what happened.

Let me back up.

I left social media last December. After the breakdown. After he wouldn’t stop messaging. After I found that drone hovering outside my second-story window.

Therapy. Journaling. A fresh start.

And no internet.

No selfies. No stories. No status updates.

Just peace.

Or so I thought.

The fake account started posting daily.

Photos I hadn’t seen in years — some from my private camera roll, others that were never taken at all.

One showed me in my old kitchen, holding a birthday cake. I hadn’t baked in months.

Another showed me asleep in bed. The timestamp was 2:12 a.m.

I lived alone.

I reported the account. Nothing happened.

It posted again:

“Day 202. She still thinks she’s alone. :)”

The caption chilled me.

“Who are you?” I DM’d the account from a burner.

It replied instantly:

“I’m just curating. Stay still.”

I threw my phone across the room.

The next morning, a new post went up — a screen recording of me, throwing my phone.

I packed a bag and left the apartment. No notice. No goodbyes.

I stayed in cheap motels. Changed my number. Deleted every trace of myself I could find.

It didn’t matter.

Every day, the account kept posting.

Photos of my motel room. Me crying in the bathroom mirror.

Even the tattoo I got to feel like I still had control.

“Day 239. She’s fading nicely. :)”

I told the police. They said there was no crime.

I told a private investigator. He said there was no trail.

So I stopped running.

One night, I created a new account. No name. No followers.

I messaged @TheRealSophieBlack again.

“Why me?”

It replied:

“You’re the perfect story.”

“You begged for attention. Now you’ll never escape it.”

“Followers: 1. Me.”

“Likes: Eternal.”

“Deleting your life… one post at a time.”

That was 84 days ago.

I no longer sleep.

I no longer eat.

But somehow, the photos keep coming.

Every morning, another post. Another caption. Another part of me gone.

Today’s image?

A gravestone.

My name on it.

Tomorrow’s date.

And the caption:

“Day 365. Series finale.”