A Lie Has Turned Into Reality

Everyone has probably pondered this question at least once:

“Why was I born, and what am I living for?”

But how many people can truly answer it with confidence?

I, for one, never found an answer.

I didn’t choose to be born, and I’m not living because I want to.

The reality staring me in the face feels like a glaring vulnerability—a weakness I can’t escape.

The face I see in the mirror only deepens my discomfort: a protruding forehead, an uneven jawline, small eyes, and a heavy, drooping nose bridge.

Dark spots of unknown origin are scattered beneath my eyes, and my forehead and cheeks are marked with blemishes and acne scars.

And that’s not the worst of it.

Living paycheck to paycheck, with a mountain of loan statements piling up, adds to the crushing weight of my existence.

I’m not strong enough to face this reality head-on.

So, I hide.

I run from everything.

I refuse to acknowledge the truth staring back at me.

Instead, I turn away from the reality that constantly drags me down and create an entirely different version of myself, hiding behind the safety of anonymity.

[Seoha: Wow, is this really your picture, oppa?]

[HotPotato: Yep.]

[Seoha: Then why do you always skip meet-ups with a face like that? ]

[HotPotato: You could always come to Seoul instead, lol.]

My fingers danced across the keyboard, the rapid clicks soothing as I typed, erased, and typed again. Words flowed onto the screen with ease.

A fake profile, forged with deepfake technology and near-magical Photoshop skills.

It wasn’t someone else’s photo I was using, nor had I stolen anyone’s identity. Instead, I had created an entirely fictional person. I reassured myself that this was harmless—just a bit of mental gymnastics—and eagerly threw myself into fleshing out the story of this fabricated version of me.

Before I knew it, I had become a well-known figure in the mobile game gallery community.

They say you have to deceive yourself first if you want to deceive others, right?

Apparently, I’m good at this.

Even as I wove a web of lies, I found myself captivated by the illusions I spun, feeling a thrill that resonated through every part of me.

At least, until I hit the greatest crisis of my 25 years of compulsive lying.

[Seoha: Isn’t that restaurant super expensive? Why do you always eat the good stuff without me? ]

[HotPotato: Lol, I’ll treat you if you come to Seoul.]

[Seoha: Then I’m coming this weekend! Is that too soon? ]

[HotPotato: …I’ll have to check my schedule for the weekend.]

[Seoha: Don’t worry, even if it’s just a quick meet-up, I’m fine with it! ]

Shit.

Only now was the weight of the situation sinking in.

I’m just a pathetic liar, but even I had principles I tried to stick to while deceiving others.

The web of lies I’d spun over the years was like a carefully constructed castle of sand—solid on the surface, but fragile underneath. It had never come crashing down before.

[Seoha: I’m coming on Saturday! Just so you know, you’re buying me food since I’m coming just to see you. ]

But now, it felt like the waves were about to wash everything away.

Should I hire someone to pretend to be me?

Money could be scraped together somehow, but where on earth was I supposed to find the real-life version of the fake profile picture I’d painstakingly created using every technological trick I knew?

I had gone to great lengths to avoid meeting anyone in real life, but here I was—backed into a corner because I wanted to act all cool in front of a girl. And now, everything was about to come crashing down.

Frustrated, I pressed my palm against my forehead and shut my laptop with a snap.

“What the hell am I even doing…?”

The weight of crushing self-loathing made me bow my head.

Why, of all times, was I suddenly haunted by the memory of myself painstakingly crafting that fake profile picture? I’d spent three hours carefully combining images and editing them in Photoshop, just so someone would call me handsome.

I also remembered searching for fine dining restaurants to give off the impression of financial security. And yet, here I was, too broke to even buy a proper meal, stretching my budget over convenience store triangle kimbap.

Lies had been my escape from the hellish reality of my life, but because I knew it was all a sham, I was trapped in a constant dilemma.

The guilt of deceiving others clashed with the euphoria of feeling validated by them.

Today, the delicate balance I had maintained was shattered, and I decided to come clean.

This was it for my castle of lies—it had stood long enough.

“Tomorrow… I’ll sort it all out. I’ll tell the truth, apologize, and… quit the community.”

‘Yes, tomorrow. I’ll put an end to everything.’

‘Maybe I shouldn’t have made the profile picture too perfect.’

‘How did I even get here? Why did I start lying in the first place?’

‘Maybe I just got too immersed in this fantasy.’

‘If only all those lies could become reality…’

Muttering under my breath, I ignored the throbbing headache and closed my eyes.

“…Where the hell am I?”

The air reeked of must and decay, the stench of rotting garbage overwhelming my senses.

Gone was the cramped, dingy studio apartment I’d fallen asleep in.

Instead, my eyes were greeted by a room so extravagant it could have been a suite in a five-star hotel.

The silky pajamas clinging to my skin were so luxurious they felt like they might slip through my fingers if I touched them.

Everything around me screamed opulence. The furniture was all high-end designer pieces—brands I had only ever heard about, never dreamed of owning.

This couldn’t be real. It had to be a dream, right?

Relieved, I sank back into the impossibly soft bed, the faint fragrance from the sheets soothing me.

The fabric hugged my body, making me feel like I was floating on a cloud. I wanted to stay there forever, enveloped in this surreal comfort.

But as I lazily wiggled my toes and let the time pass, a creeping sense of unease began to settle over me.

Something was off.

I shot up from the bed, scanning the room. My eyes landed on a full-length mirror in the corner.

And then I froze.

“What…?”

The voice that escaped my lips wasn’t the low, gloomy tone I was used to. Instead, it was deep, rich, and brimming with masculinity—the exact kind of voice I used to fake during phone calls with a voice modulator.

And the face reflected in the mirror?

It was achingly familiar.

Perfect symmetry, sharp features, a high and well-proportioned forehead, piercing eyes, flawless skin without a single blemish, and a strong, sculpted nose.

It was the face.

The very face I had painstakingly created for my fake profile.

My digital alter ego, now staring back at me in the flesh.

Smack!

“…Ow, that hurts.”

My cheek stung, swelling slightly, but at least it proved one thing.

“This isn’t a dream…?”

The face staring back at me in the mirror was painted with a mix of shock and disbelief.

I stood there, dumbfounded, gazing at my reflection.

I glanced around again, but all I could see were furniture pieces that looked more expensive than my entire net worth.

Words failed me as I took in the surreal scene. Yet one thing was becoming increasingly clear:

The delusions I had only ever imagined had somehow become reality.

“First things first… I should look around.”

I opened the door with a mix of anticipation and trepidation, only to be greeted by a sight that went far beyond anything I had imagined.

Speechless, I simply wandered through the space, my eyes scanning everything around me.

The long hallway had a dark brown marble floor that exuded sophistication. With each step, the cool, solid texture of the marble underfoot felt strangely satisfying.

The kitchen looked like it had been plucked straight out of a luxury showroom. Stainless steel appliances lined the counters in an arrangement so sleek, it was almost comical.

In the corner, I noticed another door and opened it, only to find an elevated wine cellar.

The dim lighting reflected off the bottles of wine and champagne, casting a subtle glow that felt both opulent and surreal.

“Wow, holy shit… How many bottles of Romanée-Conti and Dom Pérignon are in here…?”

Each bottle was worth as much as a car.

Why does a shut-in like me know this? Well, pretending to be rich means studying the lifestyles of the wealthy.

Of course, I never thought I’d actually get to experience it firsthand.

I continued exploring and found myself in a living room filled with high-end furniture and artwork.

There was a terrace designed like an indoor garden, an additional room set up as a library, and ceilings so high I had to crane my neck to see the top.

A massive marble dining table that could seat an army stood imposingly in the center, surrounded by carefully placed indirect lighting that made the entire space glow.

When I entered the room connected to the bedroom, I nearly choked—it was a walk-in closet that went beyond anything I’d ever dreamed of.

The walls were lined with neatly arranged clothes from luxury brands I’d only heard about.

Even the watch display case by the door was from a high-end brand.

It was none other than an Orphe 1834 32-slot cabinet winder, likely a limited edition.

And the watches inside? Each one was worth anywhere from tens of thousands to millions.

Richard Mille, Patek Philippe, Vacheron Constantin, Breguet, Audemars Piguet, Rolex…

“Wow… Just selling this display case could probably buy me a house.”

I let out a hollow laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Every bathroom in the house was finished with marble and came equipped with oversized jacuzzi tubs that could easily fit two people.

And beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows in both the living room and bathroom was a stunning view of the Han River.

This insane place—this palace—was supposed to be my new home? Me, who had been living in a dingy, musty semi-basement apartment?

The sheer unreality of it all left me drained. I sank into a plush sofa, slumping against it as if my body had melted.

I needed to cool my head, to think.

Let’s recap:

First, my face had changed into the one from the fake profile picture I had carefully created.

Second, my voice had also changed—it was now the same deep, masculine tone I used to fake with a voice modulator in chat rooms.

Third, the imaginary luxurious home I had claimed as mine in the community had somehow materialized and become my actual residence.

“The scariest part is… I can’t even remember half the lies I’ve told.”

It seemed like the time had come to set aside my excitement and take a hard look back at my 25 years of lies.

I needed to figure out what was happening to me—to understand this bizarre phenomenon that had turned my delusions into reality.