I can’t seem to sleep.

So, naturally, I reach for my phone.

Maybe the bright, searing light of a device containing all human knowledge, held centimetres away from my face, will gently lull me into a peaceful slumber.

I unlock the screen—3:12 AM.

I should put it down. I know that.

I know that.

Instead, I scroll.

A video of someone making soup. The broth simmers, golden and clear. A spoon dips in, swirling steam curling upwards. There’s no voiceover, just soft lo-fi music.

I keep watching.

It plays again.

I don’t realize I’ve watched it three times until my thumb moves on its own, dragging upwards.

A headline.

"This AI-Generated Image Fooled 98% of Viewers—Can You Spot The Fake?"

I pause.

Stare at the two side-by-side photographs. A woman standing in a busy city street. One real, one generated.

I squint. The second image looks too crisp, too clean.

I read the comments. Half say it’s the first image that’s fake. The other half argue it’s the second. Someone says they’re both AI-generated. Someone else says neither are.

My screen dims. Low Power Mode: 20% Battery Remaining.

I should plug it in. But then I’d have to get up.

I look back at the images.

My stomach tightens.

The woman’s expression has changed.

It’s small—almost nothing. But in the first image, she was smiling. Now, her lips are pressed into a line.

I scroll past the post.

Then, hesitating, I scroll back up.

She’s smiling again.

I take a slow breath. My pulse is steady. Everything is fine.

The screen dims.

For a second, I see myself reflected in the darkened glass.

The alarm clock’s red glow hollows out my face. My own tired eyes stare back—except, for just a moment, I swear the reflection lags. A fraction of a second too slow.

I inhale sharply. Blink.

I should try to sleep.

Instead, I keep scrolling.

A missing person post. “Have You Seen Me?” An image of a young woman. Brown hair, green eyes, last seen near a gas station. No new updates.

I double-tap to like.

It’s not enough, but it never is.

A news article about a country I’ll never visit collapsing.

A celebrity’s apology screenshot from their notes app.

Another video. A man on a train, laughing to himself. The subtitle says, "POV: You remember something funny but can’t tell anyone because you’re in public."

I exhale through my nose, just shy of a real laugh. Keep scrolling.

A news article: "Astronomers Detect Mysterious Signal from Deep Space."

I click.

“Possibly a repeating fast radio burst (FRB), originating from a galaxy three billion light-years away.”

The comments are divided.

It’s aliens.

It’s just space junk.

Nothing matters. Go to sleep.

I check the time. 3:48 AM.

I really should go to sleep.

I go back to the feed.

A dog pushing a shopping cart.

A teenager crying about something vague but deeply personal while she does her makeup.

A “fun fact” about how octopuses might be sentient.

A video of a war.

I pause. Rewatch it. Not edited. Not staged. Someone films from behind a shattered window. Gunfire. Screaming. People running in the streets. Then, an explosion. The camera jolts, topples sideways. Silence.

The next video autoplays instantly.

Someone dancing in their kitchen.

I scroll back up.

The war video is gone.

Replaced with an ad for headphones.

I check the time again. 4:02 AM.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

I don’t remember the last twenty minutes.

"Did You Know? If you can’t fall sleep, it means someone is dreaming about you."

It’s not true. I know that. But for a second, I wish it was.

Scroll.

A photo of a man standing in a field, staring at something in the sky. The caption just says, "Can anyone else see it?"

The comments are turned off.

I keep scrolling.

A post from an account with no profile picture:

The missing person post again. “Have You Seen Me?”

Except—

Except it’s not the same girl.

The hair is different. The eyes. But the name is exactly the same.

I freeze. Scroll past it. Scroll back up.

Gone.

I set my phone down. Stare at the ceiling.

My eyes burn from the screen glare. My body is exhausted.

And yet.

I pick the phone back up.

A video of a girl talking directly into the camera. Her face is pale, eyes glassy. Her voice is slow, measured.

"If you're seeing this… that means the algorithm knows you’re awake right now. Alone. Scrolling. Watching."

My stomach tightens.

The audio distorts.

"It’s watching you, too."

I check the comments.

Disabled.

Check the account.

Deleted.

The next post is a meme. A cartoon dog in a burning room. "This is fine."

I open another app.

Just to check. Just to make sure.

A post from someone I don’t follow in Recommended:

“y’all notice the timestamps are gone?”

I check.

They’re right. There are no timestamps. No dates. No indicators of when anything was posted.

I go back to the homepage.

The feed refreshes.

More.

More.

More.

My thumb moves automatically.

What was I looking for?

The answer doesn’t matter.

The feed is endless.

And I will never reach the bottom.

4:47 AM.

I close the app. Open another one.

The first post on my feed says:

“Guys, stop checking the time. It’s not real anyways.”

My breath catches.

The feed refreshes on its own.

A video starts playing—grainy, static-filled footage of a dimly lit bedroom.

The camera is shaking.

My stomach twists. I look around. Nothing. Just the glow of my phone. Just the dim outline of furniture in the dark.

I look back at the screen.

The video is gone.

Replaced with a new post.

White letters on a dark background.

A simple question:

“What time is it?”

I close the app.

Lock my phone.

Roll onto my side, eyes shut tight.

I will not check again.

I will not look.

I will not—

What time is it?

My eyes drift open.

The red glow of my bedside clock cuts through the dark. 4:47 AM.

I blink at it, dazed. My body is heavy, mind slow, the kind of tired that should pull me under any second now.

But I don’t close my eyes.

I watch the numbers. Just for a moment. Just long enough to let my thoughts settle, to let the quiet take over.

I stare.

And stare.

And then—

I realize it hasn’t changed.

I frown. No, that can’t be right. Maybe I only thought I’d been lying here longer.

I count to thirty slowly in my head.

My pulse is steady. Maybe I’m just overtired.

I glance back at the clock.

4:47 AM.

I must have counted too fast.

I inhale sharply. My fingers twitch against the sheets.

I count again, slower this time. Deliberate. Careful.

I swallow the lump in my dry throat. The numbers don’t change.

Fifty-five. Fifty-six. Fifty-seven.

A bead of sweat forms at my temple. My chest feels too tight.

I prop myself up on my elbow, heart hammering. How is this possible?

Sixty.

I can hear my own breathing now. Too loud. Too fast. I could swear the room is holding its breath with me.

I stare at the clock, willing the numbers to change.

They don’t.

Still 4:47 AM.

My mouth goes dry.

That isn’t possible.

My brain scrambles for an explanation, something rational, something logical—clocks freeze sometimes, right? Maybe the power glitched. Maybe it’s broken.

But no. I can hear it. The soft electric hum. The faint buzz of something still working.

I push myself up, heart thudding dully in my chest.

The room feels wrong. Stagnant, unmoving. Like time itself isn’t breathing.

I don’t want to—

But I do.

My hand moves before I can stop it, reaching for my phone, fingers wrapping around it.

It feels heavier now.

The screen flares to life and the glow cuts through the dark.

The time still says 4:47 AM.

I stare at the numbers on the screen. I wait for the clock to change.

But it doesn’t.

It’s not frozen. I know that now.

It’s just waiting for me.

The realisation sinks in, slow and sickening: the time will not change unless I keep scrolling.

I flick to the home screen. Open the app. Swipe up.

The feed refreshes.

New posts. New distractions.

A video of a man chopping vegetables.

A headline: "Scientists Discover a New Signal From Space.”

A meme.

A missing person post. Same girl, different name now.

My thumb moves automatically.

Another video. Another article. Another post.

Another. Another. Another.

I don’t know how long I do this.

I just know I can’t stop.

I just know that if I pause, even for a second, I’ll be stuck here forever.

I keep scrolling.

And scrolling.

And finally—

4:48 AM.