Like Me

by Hayley Phelan

I watched her Follower count rise to 20K, then 50K, then push past 100K. I was completely riveted. I probably clocked an hour or two every day on her feed, poring over her photos. It was intoxicating watching her perfect life unfold, this stranger who looked so much like me; I suppose it made me feel as if my dreams were within reach, like I, too, could be famous, rich again, and loved.

Benoit took photos of Gemma constantly. Gemma in the shower, tufted in soapsuds. Gemma asleep in the late afternoon sun. Gemma eating cereal on the couch. Even Gemma pissing, her cute white panties making a garland around her ankles, a sheepish grin on her face. That’s what I thought love was: someone who constantly wanted to take your picture.

I studied the nudes I’d taken of myself.

CW: lots and lots of toxic body image spiraling

“Just statutory. And anyway, all the charges were dropped.”

CW: sex with minors

I studied her legs—long, pale, and thin, slightly bowed, her thighs like elegant brackets—and the space between them: that yawning distance that seemed to represent the chasm between the two of us. She had the best thigh gap.

*#thighgap by Chandler Morrison

“She only has eleven hundred Followers,” said one of the others. That was something they’d started doing, giving your social media stats alongside your height, weight, and shoe size.

I'm barfing.

a way of carrying herself that reminded me of other famous people I’d seen, a way of holding her head up high, looking only at what was directly in front of her—nothing in her peripheral vision—which simultaneously acknowledged and ignored the fact that everyone in the room was looking at her.

It was past five in the morning. I knew Gemma wouldn’t reply until later, if at all. In gray script, my screen informed me she had been active 1h ago. But I was unsatisfied and wanted more. I visited her profile. She had no new posts, so I placated myself by poring over her tagged images.

This author is so familiar with social media. Insta specifically. And so am I, so there's this uncanny reliability.

“Am I living my truth?” Gemma laughs. She gestures at the surroundings behind her. “I’m definitely living my dream. Hopefully that’s the same thing.”

these social media post interludes are painfully razor sharp

“Doesn’t she look just like a child?” he gushed. “This innocence! Barely sweet sixteen.”

ugh. the beauty industry is so gross.

“Virginal and pure and sensual. A child-woman, the object of obsession—but totally unawares, totally innocent.”

Oh god, no really--it's horrifying

“Fantastic, Mickey,” he gushed. “Absolutely fantastic.” He sat up, and his face was flushed and his eyes shining.

Wow. What? Anyways TWs: SA on a photoshoot

I giggled. “Hey, that’s all you,” I said. “I just stand there and look good.”

The power dynamic here is disgusting