She ended up in front of a run-down internet café.
No idea how she got there. Like, she walked, sure, but everything else was a blur. The flickering neon made it look like the sign was trying to glitch out of existence. Very comforting.
The door creaked open, and grainy music spilled out. The kind that's too low-quality to make out, but you know it's bad.
Maris hesitated. It smelled like old coffee, busted air freshener, and maybe… corn chips? Something ancient. She stepped inside.
Inside was straight out of an early 2000s fever dream. A few tired computers huddled together like they'd seen things. Most screens were black. Except one.
One screen was on. The thumbnail hit her like a semi-truck of cringe.
"Top Secret Compilation: ■■■■□■□□Outtakes 2015."
Oh no.
She stared. Then, for some reason only known to midnight-brain Maris, she clicked it.
The video blared out—her voice, high and unfiltered, from a past life.
"If you ask me about shipping one more time, I'm legally changing my name to 'I'm not interested.'"
Nostalgic intro music. Jump cuts. Bad takes.
"Here we see an animal that looks like my ex. Wait, no—I don't even have an ex. Booze is kicking in—blehhh—haha."
She physically recoiled. But also… laughed.
This was bad. Really bad.
And yet?
It was kinda comforting. Honest. No branding. No sponsor shoutouts. No fake deep topics. Just chaos and brain mush.
She clicked on another file. This one had her full gremlin energy in play.
"Pizza gods have abandoned me. I'm not okay. Somebody send help. Or garlic bread. Preferably both."
It was a mess.
She loved it.
A small text file opened, practically on its own.
Reminder.txt
"Yo, Aimee, don't get too corporate. Remember what made this fun. Midnight file = midnight truth. Don't fake your smile. (Also I typed this half asleep so if it's cringe, sue me.)"
Her chest tightened.
Aimee.
She hadn't heard that name in forever.
She whispered it like it might break something.
"Aimee."
it was. The person before the merch, before the deadlines. Just a girl with too many dumb jokes and not enough sleep.
The weight of the name hit her hard. It felt like remembering a lost friend. A time when things didn't have to make sense.
Before the streams, before the sponsors. Before being anyone other than herself.
Aimee.
Her fingers hovered over the mouse, uncertain. She'd nearly forgotten who she was before Maris.
But it wasn't over. The files kept appearing.
Another clip. A recording from one of her first streams. The quality was terrible, the camera shaky, the sound all wrong.
"I don't know what I'm doing, but here we go. I'm Aimee. I guess... I don't know. Whatever."
It was so… raw. No edits, no scripts. Just a girl trying to make something of nothing. She paused it. Her throat tightened.
Then—just as she was about to close it—another file popped up.
Do Not Open—You're Not Ready.
Her hand froze over the mouse. She should've stopped. There was something about this file. Something wrong.
But curiosity won. She clicked.
The screen flickered once. Twice. And then—*
The video began, showing a familiar, old bedroom. Her bedroom. The same posters on the walls. The same cluttered desk. A half-empty glass of soda beside the bed.
And then—her voice.
"I… I don't know what to say. This is my first video. I don't really know where I'm going with this. But if you're watching—thanks, I guess. I'm Aimee. And, yeah. That's it."
A nervous laugh, followed by a long silence. It was the first video she never posted. The one she kept for herself. No one had ever seen it. Until now.
The room felt suddenly too small. Too close. She leaned back in the chair, staring at the screen. This was where it all began. Before the persona. Before everything.
She clicked pause. She needed space. She needed to—
Then, a soft ping broke the silence.
Reminder:
"Don't forget. Be real today. Your authentic smile. No masks."
It was like the past was reaching out, clawing at her. Those words… they meant something. They felt too familiar.
She sat there, breath shallow, when another ping sounded.
Unknown Number:
"Call your mom, Aimee. She's waiting."
Her chest tightened. What?
A chill crept up her spine. The text came from a number she didn't recognize. The message was so blunt. So… real.
Her mom?
But the strangest part? She didn't even realize until now. She hadn't talked to her mom in forever.
She blinked. The phone in her hand suddenly felt heavier. She couldn't ignore the cold feeling of something else, something far darker than just forgotten memories.
The phone rang. She was about to press "call" when—
The lights above her flickered violently. The screen, still on, flashed.
"You're not ready."
A quick, unsettling voice cut through the room—it was real this time.
"Don't call, Aimee."
She turned around.
Empty.
The café was still, silent.
But that voice… That voice came from the computer.
Her heart raced as the screen blinked out for a moment. A second later, her own face appeared—familiar yet distant—eyes sunken, voice hollow.
The words were simple, but chilling:
"You're not supposed to remember yet."
The screen went black.
Suddenly, the hum of the computers, the flickering lights—everything in the room felt... wrong.
A voice, low and barely audible, whispered from the speakers, like an echo from another time:
"Don't make the call, Aimee. You're not ready to face this."
Her pulse raced, but the room remained empty. The eerie quiet stretched on, and she found herself staring at the black screen.
And then, the café door creaked open.
But no one walked in.
The hairs on her neck stood up. She wasn't alone.