Each notification pops up with a cheerfuldingwhile he’s lounging on the couch, watching some mindless movie.
At first, he ignores them, but the frequency ramps up, and his irritation is palpable. He slams his phone down on the table, muttering about ‘fucking technology.’
“Your phone’s making a lot of noise today,” Margaux comments, clearly curious. “Is someone texting you?”
“No, it’s nothing,” he frowns, lying to her like usual. “It’s just some dumb update.”
The laptop is next. I make sure every time he opens it, his homepage redirects to a job board for fast food positions.
On the second day, I escalate by replacing his desktop wallpaper with a bold text image that reads:
**CONTRIBUTE OR DIE TRYING**
His paranoia grows. I see it in the way he glances around the room, suspicious of nothing and everything.
He starts accusing Margaux of touching his stuff, messing with his settings.
Watching him unravel is almost too easy.
Would Margaux be happy if she knew? Not at all.
But I’m not trying to be creepy.
I’m trying to help her.Margaux.The woman of my dreams.
The real pièce de résistance comes when I adjust his Spotify playlists. Timmy’s taste is predictable: a mix of 2000s pop, party anthems, and local reggae. I infiltrate his account and replace every playlist with titles like:
Songs for Losers
You’ll Never Be Him
Daddy’s Disappointment Vol. 1
Baby Shark Mashup Megamix- I later delete this because I realize he might actually like it too much.
The tracks themselves? Lullabies, funeral dirges, and a looped audio clip of someone whispering, “Get a job, Timmy.”
When he tries to play his usual songs, they won’t load. Instead, his phone emits a high-pitched whine for a few seconds before silence falls.
“What the fuck?” he shouts, shaking the device as if it’ll give him answers. It won’t. Only frustration. “Margaux, did you fuck with my Spotify?”
She looks up from her laptop which she’s working on as usual, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“Somebody’s fucking with my shit,” he says.
She rolls her eyes. “Nobody’s fucking with your shit, Timmy,” she says. “You’re not that special.”
Jesus. Sweet Margaux is turning into a bit of a bitch toward Timmy.Not that I blame her in the slightest.
To seal the deal, I slip into his social media accounts.
I make subtle changes: a ‘like’ on a random Instagram photo of a girl Margaux doesn’t like, a vague Facebook status update reading, ‘Feeling useless today. Anyone else?’
His friends start commenting supportive messages, but Timmy has no idea why. He deletes the post, but I make sure another one pops up within the hour: ‘Sometimes I think Margaux deserves better.’
I sit back, watching the chaos unfold. Every piece of his digital life is now an unpredictable minefield. The control he so desperately clings to has slipped through his fingers, and he’s left floundering, doubting his own sanity.
“Margaux, did you post on my Facebook?”