Ray didn’t send a reel today. Did he die?

Ray’s days begin with a familiar, mechanical pattern. He wakes up, checks his notifications, ignores every single one, and migrates to Instagram. There, he is met with the hypnotic, fractured world of “Reels.” He likes to think of himself as one of the few souls blessed by the algorithm gods, making his feed a truly unpredictable theater of the absurd. One moment, he is watching a somber analysis of a 19th-century ghazal; the next, if he makes the mistake of scrolling into the deeper pits of his feed, he is met with Chinese men performing taekwondo in cat suits while meowing in Cantonese. How such a thing is even possible, he doesn’t know.

At first, his face contorts into a silent, “Man, What the actual hell?” before softening into a reluctant, wicked grin. Eventually, the cycle culminates in the ritualistic act of sending the creepy reel to his friends—a digital "ping" which is supposed to scream “RAY IS NOT DEAD”. It’s a shame, then, that such a heavy declaration of life is usually reduced to a polite chime or a dull vibration against a nightstand.

He remembers the first time he got an account, a milestone that coincided with his first phone in the twelfth grade. The veil of mystery that had shrouded him as the only kid in class without a social media presence was lifted by a single, tastelessly color graded photo of a stray cat rummaging through a trash can. Ray had called it “wildlife photography” back then. People he knew from school—people he had already begun to forget due to the steady erosion of time—suddenly “liked” the post.

He didn’t know if they actually liked it; he couldn’t read minds, after all. But as the fentanyl of approval began to course through his veins, the need to post intensified. He started hosting Q&A sessions as if he were a Hollywood star on a press tour, obsessively tracking follower counts and likes. All of this for a private account visible only to people he already knew. Looking back, Ray realized he had been a special kind of stupid. 

He eventually stopped posting once life got heavy, but the memes remained. They were his steady companions through moves, college, and the cold isolation of adulthood. Memes, and the people who received them, helped him survive lonely winters and grueling time zone changes. Before he knew it, he was addicted to the implied dopamine of these low-stakes interactions.

He hated the apps. Every day, he swore he would finally excise the rot. He tried to convince himself to stay for the "good things"—the poetry, the storytelling, the permission to be weird—but he felt increasingly demoralized by the acute awareness that came with being chronically online. He noticed that the algorithm functioned like a mirror: on days when his outlook was grim, his feed confirmed his fears with posts about wars and capitalistic dread. On days when he felt a spark of hope, he saw cats in trees and people frolicking. The algorithm was being creepy. 

Just as he was ready to quit for good, he moved halfway across the world, yet again. He missed his friends from this seemingly other life he lived not too long ago. Between the jagged time differences, big moves, weddings, jobs and grad schools, those stupid reels became the only thread connecting him to his new past life. Ray hated phone calls; he didn't want to be an invasive nuisance. A reel was a soft knock on the door—a way of saying “I’m thinking of you” without demanding thirty minutes of their time.

But the disconnect from reality was becoming a burden. He knew he needed to quit. He just feared his friends would be lost to the silence once the steady stream of dancing cows stopped flowing. He hoped, against all odds, that he’d eventually have the courage to just call them—and not take it personally if they don’t pick up. 

Ray went back to his younger self, sitting on the school veranda like a social pariah because he lacked a phone—and hence the intel—to join the lunchroom chatter with his old friends. But he wasn't that kid anymore. He had already shown these new and improved friends the 'Director’s Cut' of his life, not just the highlights.

In hindsight, it seemed much more plausible that his friends had stayed despite the stupid reels; and not because of them. He looked at his phone. He imagined his friends waking up to a message from their jobless friend, Ray, only to find an AI-generated video of dancing cows. That must be horrible – He thought. 

Ray navigated to the app settings, hovered his thumb over the “Deactivate Your Account” option and held his breath. Then, abruptly, he closed the app and set the phone face down. He had already lost his breakfast sandwich to the business end of the floor. Severing his digital umbilical cord would only make the day objectively worse. He wasn't ready to let go. At least, not yet.