Watching You

A Glitch In The Algorithm

The first time Summer saw Armani, it was a glitchy t****k video. A quick cut of a girl with deep, brown eyes and a smile that seemed to light up the whole screen. Her locs were tied back in a messy bun, and she was lip-syncing to some obscure R&B song. Summer watched it three times, then scrolled down, but she couldn't get the girl's face out of her head. A few days later, the algorithm served her another video of the same girl, this time talking about her love for vintage clothes and old movies. Summer, feeling brave, left a comment: "You have a great style! Love the vibe."

She didn't expect a reply, but she got one. A simple "Thanks so much!" with a heart emoji. It was enough to get Summer to click on her profile, which led to a follow, which led to a DM. Soon, their conversation moved to iMessage, and the quick, ten-second videos of t****k were replaced with long, rambling paragraphs about their lives. Armani was 17, from Atlanta. She loved poetry, knew the lyrics to every 90s hip-hop song, and had an infectious laugh that Summer could almost hear through her phone. Summer, 16 and from Chicago, shared her own passions for art, a deep-seated fear of public speaking, and the chaotic love she had for her family. They talked about everything: their dreams, their insecurities, their favorite foods, and the pressures of being black and queer teenagers in a world that wasn't always kind.

Months passed, and their nightly texts turned into phone calls that stretched into the early hours of the morning. Summer would lay in bed, her phone pressed against her ear, listening to Armani's voice. One night, Armani described a dream she had about a field of sunflowers. "And they were all turning to face you, like you were the sun," she said, her voice soft and a little raspy with sleep. Summer smiled, feeling a warmth spread through her chest that had nothing to do with her blanket. They fell in love with each other's minds first, then with the girls behind the screens. The distance was a constant ache, but it also made their feelings feel more intense, more pure. When Armani finally asked Summer to be her girlfriend, it wasn't a question of if, but of when.

Their digital love story was beautiful, a quiet bubble of affection. But bubbles, Summer would soon learn, are fragile.

The first c***k appeared subtly. Summer was at the library, studying for finals. She posted a quick photo on her i********: story of her textbooks and a half-empty coffee cup. Ten minutes later, she got a text from Armani. "Are you in the second-floor study room? I saw your bag in the corner of the picture." Summer's heart did a strange little flutter. It was true, but how did Armani know? She brushed it off as a lucky guess.

A week later, Summer was hanging out with a friend from her art class. They went to a small cafe for a smoothie, and Summer texted Armani about it. "Have fun with Jessica!" Armani replied. Summer stared at her phone. She had never mentioned her friend's name to Armani. When she asked how she knew, Armani just said, "I saw her in the background of your story once. The one with the green sweater, right?" Summer's stomach twisted. She had posted a story with her friend, but the friend was in the back, barely visible.

The strangeness escalated. Summer would find small gifts on her doorstep—a new art sketchbook, a vintage vinyl record she had mentioned wanting, a specific brand of chocolate she loved. There was no note, no explanation, just the perfect, terrifyingly personal gift. She'd ask Armani if she had sent them, and Armani would laugh it off, saying, "I have no idea what you're talking about, silly."

One evening, Summer was walking home from a friend's house. It was late, and the streetlights were hazy. She had just hung up with Armani, who had sounded unusually frantic, demanding to know where she was and why she was out so late. As Summer turned the corner onto her street, she saw a car she didn't recognize parked a little way down. The window was slightly ajar. As she got closer, the face she had fallen in love with, the one with the brown eyes and the infectious smile, stared back at her. It was Armani.

Panic seized Summer. She froze, her phone slipping from her numb fingers. Armani got out of the car, her smile replaced with a vacant, chilling stare. "Summer, what's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"What are you doing here?" Summer's voice was a whisper, trembling with fear.

"I just wanted to surprise you," Armani said, her voice soft but with an edge Summer had never heard before. "I've been in town for a few days, actually. Just... watching you."

The word "watching" hung in the air like a storm cloud. All the little details clicked into place: the strangely specific texts, the perfect gifts, the lucky guesses. It wasn't love. It was something else. Something obsessive and terrifying. The girl who had made her laugh and feel safe was a complete stranger. A crazy, obsessive stalker.

Armani took a step towards her, her face a mask of concern that didn't reach her eyes. "Why are you scared? We're supposed to be together, remember? I'm just making sure you're safe. I'll always be watching out for you."

Summer didn't hear the rest. She turned and ran, the sound of her own frantic breathing drowning out the soft, chilling words of the girl who had traveled hundreds of miles to watch her, a girl who was doing something she'd never knew she'd do.

She ran until the streetlights blurred into streaks of gold and the frantic pounding of her heart was the only sound she could hear. She burst through her front door, slammed it shut, and slid to the floor, her back pressed against the wood. Her hands were shaking as she fumbled for her phone, blocking Armani's number and her main social media accounts. But the fear didn't subside. It was a cold, creeping thing, an invasive thought that had taken root in the safe space of her home.

Later that night, unable to sleep, she started to search. The words "Armani Atlanta" on the search bar felt like a betrayal, a violation of the digital trust they had shared. What she found was worse than she could have imagined. On a dormant i********: account with a handful of followers, she found photos of herself. Not just the public ones she had posted, but screenshots of her own stories, pictures of her walking down the street, and a blurred image of her sitting in the library, her bag clearly visible in the corner. The account was two years old, with posts from before they had ever met on t****k.

The last photo was a close-up of a vintage vinyl record, the same one that had appeared on her doorstep. The caption read: "Finally found it. Just waiting for the perfect moment."

Summer didn't scream. She didn't cry. She just stared at the screen, every unsettling moment from the last few months clicking into place. It wasn't love. It was a meticulous, patient, and terrifying obsession that had been going on long before she ever knew Armani's name. The girl with the infectious laugh wasn't just a stranger; she was a predator, a ghost in the machine who had been watching her all along. And now, she knew where to find her.