I Accidentally Subscribed to the Premium Reality

It happened while I was half-asleep and fully annoyed.

My internet was down, my coffee had that vague burnt-toast flavor, and I had just stubbed my toe on the leg of my overly minimalist couch. I did what any sane adult would do: opened a meditation app to passive-aggressively breathe through the rage.

That’s when the notification appeared.

“Tired of buffering real life? Try Premium Reality—First Month Free!”

I thought it was a joke. Another ad. Probably for one of those expensive journals that come with pre-written gratitude.

I clicked ACCEPT just to get rid of it.

And that’s when everything changed.

⸻

At first, I didn’t notice much.

But by the second morning, the sun rose at a better angle.

Like—cinematically better.

The light came in through my window like I lived in a French indie film. My coffee tasted like a slow, bittersweet memory. My reflection looked… rested? Me?

Even my cat, Barış, stopped knocking things off shelves with malicious intent. He gazed at me like he finally saw my inner child.

“Something’s wrong,” I muttered.

“Everything is optimized,” a disembodied voice replied from the ceiling.

I looked up. “Who said that?”

“Welcome to Premium Reality. We hope you’re enjoying your enhanced existence. Would you like to activate narrative foreshadowing mode?”

“What—?”

“Foreshadowing enabled.”

⸻

On my way to work, everyone started making eye contact.

People nodded at me in slow, meaningful ways. A child offered me a flower. My barista looked into my soul and asked,

“Do you want your usual today—or something new that’ll change your destiny?”

I blinked.

“Just… the usual.”

He nodded gravely, handed me a coffee that smelled like courage, and whispered, “Your arc begins today.”

⸻

At first, it was exhilarating.

The lighting followed me like I was being trailed by an invisible production crew.

Raindrops only fell when dramatically appropriate.

Even the pigeons cleared the sidewalk for me.

And inside my head, there was a voice—polite, British, and slightly passive-aggressive—offering constant updates.

“Your conversation with Greg scored a 6.7 in emotional depth. Try asking about his childhood trauma next time.”

“Mood boost activated. Cue nostalgic montage.”

“You are now entering your Act II Catalyst.”

⸻

I asked a friend if she noticed anything weird lately.

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You know… like the world is a bit too polished?”

She smiled. “You’re just finally aligned.”

“What does that mean?”

But she had already turned to face an imaginary fourth wall.

⸻

Then came the ads.

They weren’t the usual ones.

No pop-ups or banners.

Just subtle product placements in my own thoughts.

I’d be brushing my teeth and suddenly wonder if I needed a new vacuum. Or crave guava juice. Or feel an inexplicable desire to book a retreat in Slovenia.

“Suggestions based on your internal data,” the voice explained.

“Can I turn them off?”

“Only with Premium Plus+.”

⸻

I tried to unsubscribe.

There was no button. No link. No escape.

I emailed support. Got an automated reply:

“We’re sorry to see you go! A representative will reach out during your next existential crisis.”

⸻

I stopped sleeping well.

The lighting began adjusting itself while I was trying to rest. My dreams had orchestral soundtracks. My nightmares ended with applause.

And people around me became… less real.

They started speaking in oddly perfect dialogue. They delivered life lessons in neat, Instagrammable quotes. No one interrupted anymore. Everyone waited their turn to speak.

Even Barış, my cat, started using dramatic pauses before meowing.

⸻

Then came the Trial Warning.

It flashed across my smart mirror in glowing Helvetica:

“Trial period ending in 24 hours. Please select your subscription tier:

• Premium Reality Basic – Ads resume, reduced emotional texture

• Premium Reality Standard – Pay monthly with mild existential tax

• Premium Reality Ultra – Full immersion with optional memory edits

Don’t downgrade your destiny!”

I screamed into a pillow.

The pillow whispered, “Let it out, protagonist.”

⸻

I tried to contact a human. Anyone.

I wandered the streets looking for someone off-script.

Eventually, I found a guy under a bridge feeding ducks. His clothes were stained. His eyes were clear.

“You’re not subscribed, are you?” I asked.

He looked up. “I downgraded.”

“How?”

He leaned in. “You gotta fail the storyline. Say no to your big moments. Lose the job. Miss the train. Ghost the soulmate.”

“That sounds… awful.”

He nodded. “That’s real.”

⸻

I went home.

I ignored the glowing “FINAL HOURS” banner floating above my bed.

I microwaved a day-old burrito. It wasn’t part of a story arc. It was just a sad burrito.

And I ate it. Slowly.

With no music playing.

⸻

The next morning, the sun didn’t rise perfectly.

Barış knocked over a glass.

The coffee tasted burnt again.

But the silence was mine.

And I think I might have actually heard my own thoughts for the first time in weeks.