Eli first noticed it on a Tuesday — a small white envelope, unmarked, wedged between the pages of his chemistry notebook.
He thought it was just another forgotten assignment slip or a prank. But when he opened it, his heart stopped.
> *You're not supposed to exist.*
The letters were cut out from magazines, like something out of a detective show. It was absurd enough to be funny, but the chill that crawled down his spine wasn't.
Eli shoved it into his backpack, deciding not to tell anyone. Not yet.
By lunch, the day had already gone weird. Nova was arguing with her project group in the media lab — something about creative direction and "authenticity." The word "authentic" sounded sharp in her mouth, like it had lost all meaning.
She spotted him near the vending machines and waved. "Hey, Mystery Boy."
He raised a brow. "Still calling me that?"
"Until you trend again," she teased, stepping closer. But the lightness in her tone didn't reach her eyes. Her FameScore had dropped another half-point overnight. She'd hidden it from her public profile, but Eli could tell she was anxious — her smile had been tighter lately, more deliberate.
They found an empty bench outside, behind the art block, where Nova set down her vintage camcorder. "I developed more footage last night," she said. "You're still there. No static, no weirdness. Just you."
"Just me," Eli echoed. He tried to sound relieved, but it came out uncertain. "That's… good, right?"
Nova nodded, brushing her hair back. "Yeah. I mean… yeah."
But then her voice dropped. "Eli, someone's been DMing me weird stuff since we started this. Like… 'you shouldn't record what doesn't belong online.'"
He froze. "What?"
"I blocked them, but it's creepy. I figured maybe it's one of my ex-followers trying to troll me."
He wanted to tell her about the letter, but something inside him whispered *don't.*
Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was the memory of the counselor's words: *some people aren't meant to be seen.*
Instead, he shrugged. "Trolls are everywhere. They'll get bored."
Nova sighed, letting her head fall against the wall. "Yeah, maybe." She looked up at him, her expression softer now. "You know, sometimes I wish I could just go dark. Delete everything. No followers, no numbers, no… pressure."
"Then why don't you?"
"Because then I'd disappear." She laughed, but it wasn't funny. "And unlike you, I'm not good at being invisible."
The bell rang, breaking the moment. She packed up, slinging the camera over her shoulder. "See you after school? We can finish editing the offline footage."
Eli nodded. "Sure."
When he opened his locker that afternoon, another envelope was waiting.
> *You shouldn't be here.*
This one was typed — neat, mechanical, precise. He looked around, scanning the hallway. Everyone was talking, laughing, scrolling through their holo-screens. Nobody was watching him. But somehow, he felt *seen*.
He crumpled the paper, stuffed it in his pocket, and hurried out.
–––
That night, Eli lay in bed staring at the ceiling. The letters played over and over in his head.
He pulled out his phone, intending to text Nova, but something stopped him. Instead, he turned the phone off completely — then removed the battery.
He didn't know why, but it made him feel safer.
Downstairs, the TV flickered with muted news reports. Something about "algorithmic failures" and "memory sync errors." He caught a glimpse of a headline:
> *Users Reporting Missing Data — Authorities Investigating.*
It reminded him of the missing videos — every clip of him that refused to exist online.
Maybe the system wasn't broken. Maybe it was *working exactly as intended.*
He drifted into uneasy sleep, the white noise of the world pressing in from all sides.
–––
By morning, things got worse.
Nova cornered him near the school gates, waving her tablet. "Okay, this is freaky."
"What now?"
"Someone dropped this in my bag." She showed him a folded sheet of paper — real paper, not a message tag.
> *Stop recording him.*
Eli's stomach dropped.
"Did you tell anyone about the camcorder?" he asked.
"No," she said. "You're literally the only one who knows. I didn't even upload it to my drive yet."
"Then how—"
"I don't know!" she snapped, voice trembling. "Eli, what the hell is happening?"
He looked at her, at the fear and confusion tangled behind her eyes, and made a decision.
He reached into his jacket and handed her the two letters.
Nova read them slowly, her face draining of color. "You got these *before* today?"
He nodded.
"Okay," she said, exhaling shakily. "Okay. So it's not just me. Someone's watching both of us."
"But who?"
She didn't answer.
For the rest of the day, Nova couldn't focus. During class, her feed notifications kept pinging — followers unfollowing in clusters, sponsorships pausing "for review." It felt like the world was quietly deleting her, one tap at a time.
And Eli, for all his invisibility, suddenly seemed *too visible.* Teachers called on him more. Students stared. One girl whispered as he passed, "Isn't that the guy from the drone thing?"
The memory of that event — the kid, the falling drone — flickered like a half-remembered dream. No one had footage, but everyone *remembered*.
By dismissal, Nova and Eli sat in the back of the library, whispering.
"What if the letters are from the counselor?" Nova suggested.
He frowned. "Why would she—"
"She knew about you before we told anyone. And she said something about danger, right? 'Stay quiet if you want to stay alive.'"
The library lights dimmed slightly as the building switched to evening mode. Shadows pooled around them.
Eli ran a hand through his hair. "If she's trying to scare us off, it's working."
Nova gave him a small, stubborn smile. "Then we'll do the opposite."
He looked at her. "Meaning?"
"Meaning," she said, pulling out her offline camcorder, "we keep filming. If the world doesn't want you to exist online, we'll make sure you do — *somewhere.*"
Eli hesitated, then nodded. "Okay. But we keep it secret. No uploads. No networks."
"Scout's honor."
As they left the library, Nova slipped the camcorder into her bag — and didn't notice the third envelope waiting on the bench behind them.
This one wasn't typed. It wasn't cut from magazines either.
It was handwritten, in smooth cursive.
> *You can't save what isn't real.*