A Lie Has Turned Into Reality

All the imperfections that made him ordinary had vanished as if by magic.

And Yet, That Face… Strangely Familiar

“…Oh my god.”

I dragged a hand down my face as the realization hit me. That face—it was the exact one I had created years ago using Photoshop. I remembered it vividly now. Back then, I had even used one of the edited photos as a profile picture.

The guy’s original face, which had been fairly ordinary and not much different from mine, had been completely transformed by my editing skills.

“…You should really be thanking me for this, you know.”

“Are you feeling okay? You’re acting really weird.”

As usual, we bickered while walking toward the house. Before I realized it, we were already at the front door.

When I opened it, the sprawling interior stretched out before us. No matter how many times I saw it, I couldn’t get used to it. But unlike me, he stepped inside confidently, as if he belonged there.

“You still hanging out in that online community?” he asked casually.

“Yeah. I’m even meeting up with someone from there this Saturday.”

“…Are you sure about this? I’m kind of worried.”

“I’ll be fine. I can’t live like this forever, can I?”

His gaze lingered on me, a mix of emotions flickering in his eyes. I understood why. For years, he’d watched me avoid people like the plague because of my severe social anxiety. I had even used it as an excuse to skip every single in-person meetup organized by the community.

“Wow, so you’re really doing this? I mean, you were such a mess before.”

“Do you want to die?” I shot back.

The hiss of a soda can opening broke the tension. I poured him some zero-calorie cola from the fridge and handed it over.

“So,” he said, raising an eyebrow as he took a swig, “what’s with the long setup? You’re obviously about to ask me for something.”

“I need a favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

“Yesterday, I hit my head against a wall, and now my memories feel… scrambled.”

“What?”

I couldn’t exactly tell him the truth: I woke up to find my fantasies had become reality, but I don’t know how far that reality extends. That would sound insane. I needed a believable excuse, even if it was flimsy.

“Yeah. I just wanted to ask you some things to help me sort it all out.”

“So… let me get this straight. You hit your head, and now your memory is all messed up?”

“Exactly. It’s not serious enough to go to a hospital or anything.”

His expression shifted, concern overtaking suspicion. The guilt twisted in my gut, but what else could I do? Explaining the truth was out of the question.

Even if my excuse was ridiculous, it was the best I could come up with.

Using my supposed memory loss as a cover, I spent the next while bombarding him with questions, piecing together the state of things. Here’s what I figured out:

First, any gaps or inconsistencies caused by my fantasies becoming reality had been automatically “adapted” to fit a believable narrative.

For example, he mentioned times when he had confided in me about insecurities—his appearance, financial struggles, things I knew hadn’t happened in real life. Yet here they were, woven into the fabric of this altered world as if they always had been.

The adjustments were seamless, almost too convincing, making it feel like these moments were genuine memories.

The real problem was that I had no way of predicting how the adaptations worked—or how they might continue to reshape my reality moving forward.

In Other Words, Now That My Fantasies Have Become Reality, I Can’t Trust My Own Memories.

The silver lining? My shattered relationships mean there are fewer loose ends to worry about.

Second, only the fantasies I had documented—whether written, recorded, or otherwise preserved—had become real. The daydreams I had merely imagined remained just that, and lies I had spoken aloud without leaving any trace hadn’t materialized either.

After our long conversation, my friend finally said his goodbyes and left.

As for the remaining gaps in my understanding, I could fill them in by diving into the mountain of posts and comments I’d written on the online community over the years.

I flopped onto the sofa, phone in hand, and began sifting through the ridiculous volume of posts and replies I’d left behind.

It felt like I was digging my own grave. Every word I read sent fresh waves of secondhand embarrassment and shame rippling through me. My body physically recoiled with every line.

And the sheer quantity of it all? It wasn’t something I could breeze through. But who am I if not the ghost of the abyss, a wraith who once lived and breathed in that online space?

“Alright, let’s do this.”

I sat up, squared my shoulders, powered on my laptop, and prepared to take notes.

There were two days left until my scheduled meeting with Seoha. Two days to perfect my performance as the fantasy version of myself that I had carefully crafted online.

I wasn’t about to waste this chance to be reborn.

Why this opportunity had been given to someone like me, I couldn’t say. But even if I’d thrown away the first 25 years of my life, for the first time, I felt like I could do anything.

As I sat there, savoring the strange satisfaction of seeing a future I had only dreamed of now within reach, I wondered: what kind of expression was I wearing?

It had to be—

The happiest one I’ve ever had in my life.