The Digital Shadow

Another day, another digital detour.

I woke up at seven, the usual morning routine: thwacked the alarm on my phone, scrolling through notifications while still in bed. My social feed buzzed with the latest updates—a whirlwind of posts, photos, and headlines. As I swiped through, a slight unease settled in, like the phone was heavier in my hand than usual, or maybe it was just my imagination.

I showered, dressed, and grabbed a quick breakfast—eggs, toast, and coffee. As I ate, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. My inbox had been unusually quiet, and the typical morning flood of emails hadn’t come. Maybe it was just a slow day, but it felt… different.

I headed out to work, phone in hand, as always. The city moved at its usual pace, cars honking, people rushing past, their eyes glued to their screens. But a sense of unease followed me. Every ad on the street, every billboard seemed to call out to me personally. Was it the same for everyone, or was I just imagining things?

The subway ride was the first real sign. As I boarded, my phone buzzed with a notification: “Did you forget something?” The message was from an unknown sender, no name, just a number. I glanced around, but everyone else was absorbed in their own devices. I dismissed it as spam, but the sense of discomfort grew.

At work, things felt even stranger. My computer refused to boot up, stuck in a loop of error messages. IT had no idea what was wrong—something about an unknown software conflict. My colleagues seemed to be having similar issues, a glitch here, a crash there. But no one else seemed too concerned, just annoyed.

By lunchtime, I was desperate for a break. I decided to step outside, maybe get some air, clear my head. As I walked, my phone buzzed again: “We’re watching.” I stopped dead in my tracks. Who was this? A prank? A scam? But how did they know where I was?

My eyes darted around, scanning the crowd for anyone suspicious. Nothing. Just the usual swarm of people, phones in hand, going about their day. I felt a chill run down my spine. This wasn’t normal. I ducked into a nearby café, needing the comfort of a familiar setting.

But even here, I couldn’t escape it. My phone buzzed with a new notification: “Do you like the view?” I looked up and realized with horror that the café’s interior matched the one in the background of a photo I had posted on social media the previous week. They knew where I was, what I liked, and they were taunting me with it.

Frantic now, I opened my phone and started deleting apps—social media, email, anything that could track me. But as I deleted, new apps appeared, ones I’d never seen before, with names like “Observer” and “Watchful.” They installed themselves faster than I could remove them.

Panic set in. I left the café and started walking, faster and faster, until I was practically running. The city around me seemed to close in; the buildings were taller, the streets narrower. My phone buzzed with every step, new messages flooding in: “You can’t hide.” “We know everything.” “Why run?”

I reached a park, out of breath, heart pounding. I tossed my phone into the nearest trash bin and kept running, hoping to outrun whatever was happening. But the feeling didn’t go away. Even without the phone, I felt watched and followed, like there was no escape.

I collapsed onto a bench, trying to catch my breath. People passed by, oblivious, living their lives. I envied them for their ignorance, their peace of mind. But I knew now that privacy was an illusion, that the digital world was more intrusive than I had ever imagined.

And then, just as I was starting to calm down, the park’s public announcement system crackled to life. A voice, smooth and cold, echoed through the park: “Did you think it was that easy? Did you really think you could just turn us off?”

I looked around, but there was no one there. The voice continued, calm, almost mocking: “We’re always watching. Welcome to the new reality.”

The screen on the large billboard nearby flickered, and then my own face appeared, captured in real-time by a camera I couldn’t see. Beneath it, the words: “You can’t escape your shadow.”

I stumbled back, terrified, realizing there was nowhere left to run. I wasn’t just being watched—I was being controlled. And no matter where I went, no matter what I did, the digital shadow I had cast would always follow.