Julie Chan Is Dead

by Liann Zhang

Maybe I was too harsh. Being a young woman is already like existing in the seventh circle of hell.

No matter where I am, what I do, she won’t leave me alone. I don’t sleep that night.

Desperate for relief, I scroll through Instagram and read mean comments on Reels.

What am I doing? I can’t believe I came all the way to New York only to wait outside Chloe’s door and be jealous of a rat.

My face unlocked Chloe’s phone. Maybe God is listening.

Chloe has everything. Had everything. Her life is all I’ve ever wanted and more. It’s too precious to toss away, to zap into obscurity. I could do so much if I were her. So much more than she ever did.

She sighs. “I’m sorry, Chloe. That seriously sucks. Like, literally sucks so much. That’s actually, like, legit so sad.” I have trouble telling whether she’s actually sad or not.

The word is out now. Julie Chan is dead. Chloe Van Huusen is grieving. Everyone loves it.

I’m on a high. Like I could run a marathon without breaking a sweat. Is this how Chloe felt all the time? Or how my aunt felt when she belittled me? It’s amazing. I don’t know how I’ve ever lived without it.

It’s so easy to say that now. The guilt isn’t tangible anymore. Julie Chan is dead. Julie Chan is dead. Julie Chan is dead. See? Nothing. In a way, Julie Chan is dead. I’m not her anymore. Can never be her again. Julie Chan will never return.

“I’m just so tired all the time. Every day, I’m on the clock. Workout at five, meeting at seven, sponsored brunch at eleven, then I’m vlogging all day until six. Not to mention the emails.”

She’s one of those new-age influencers who exclusively posts short-form content. Her feed is cluttered with makeup tutorials where she slathers half a bottle of foundation onto her face as a base.

ok but this is not what new-age influencers do. it's blush and no foundation

I barely had time to breathe in this cushy new identity before I was smacked in the face with an influencer’s second-worst nightmare, after cancellation: taxes.

So, in the grand scheme of things, I’m a good person. A great fucking person. Everyone in my Chloe Crew tells me so.

I roll over to my side and check my phone, as if it will give me some clarity. But I left it on my nightstand last night, so there are no videos or pictures to jog my memory, no follow-up texts, no social posts. How can I tell what’s real without a record?

The chains clink, pressing hard against my wrists. I sigh. How did I even get here? All I wanted was to be an influencer.

But before any sound leaves her lips, I brace my core and swing the axe toward her neck again—toward the woman who killed my twin.

good reminder that Bella Marie actually did kill someone important

Still, sometimes I think about what might have happened if I had just left Iz in that bungalow.

ummmmmmmmmm

And yet… the slim metal of the phone continues to entice me. I crave its heft in my palm, the connection at my fingertips. The love. The community. Just one swipe. How bad can that be?