8 long hours of work later, I finally drag my feet across the threshold of my home. A package I almost missed waits like a lonely puppy just off to the side. The serotonin that floods my brain is only partially dulled by the anger at the delivery company. I curse to myself over the fact they deliberately ignored my directions to hide the package underneath the rug and take it inside, bashing myself over forgetting to lock the door.

The 75 square feet apartment that serves as my home, likely now and forever, is host to a single tiny table, a bed, and a kitchen in the form of a Bunsen burner and two pots, with a mini-freezer next to it. The dishes, which I do in the bathroom sink, are all already clean. Squatting onto the floor, I tear the package open and yank out my old, crumbling phone. It’s held together with tape and prayers. Literally. The glue holding the glass backing failed and so I keep it taped together, replacing the tape every so often. Still, I’m excited, even though the dead expression staring back at me in the reflection of my shattered screen doesn’t show it. The packaging comes apart quite easily, and a shiny new phone worth 3 paychecks and a missed month of rent comes out like the holy grail out of the ark of the covenant. Or however that story goes. I boot it up, in the meantime preparing my old phone for the transfers.

The new phone blinks awake. It’s already been configured, and the photo on the lock screen is of myself. A photo I distinctly don’t remember taking, because I’m too ugly to come out in photos. It’s a photo of me looking back at myself, in my home.

I stare at it for a while, and chuckle to myself. Maybe the phone took a photo of me just now, and automatically set the lock screen wallpaper? Or maybe an AI generated image. Who knows what these fuck ass phone companies get up to nowadays, might just be the latest gimmick. I don’t really know, nor does it really matter. I unlock the phone, hoping to be greeted by the intro screen, or setup installer wizard thing or whatever. No, it’s just the regular home page, with the wall paper set to another photo of me, at work, and the gallery app sitting square in the middle of the page. I blink at it. Someone had to be fucking with me. Maybe a coworker, or something, a security guard maybe? Shivers crawl up my spine, the hairs on my arm raise on end, a lump in my throat forms. I swallow, a single question tumbling in my mind like a ball bearing in a tin can. I tap open the gallery app.

A single album, my name in white, and the entire thing is photos of me. Photos of me taking a shower under a plastic bag tied to the ceiling, a photo of me cooking, a photo of me getting scolded by the boss, a closeup of me, asleep in the futon on the bed, sleeping sound as a child. My hand starts to shake. There’s a small icon in the corner, a cloud sync. The album updates.

A photo of me, crouched on the floor by my table, holding a brand new phone.