We know we are struggling with FOMO. We are addicted to fast speed. We are distracted and scared of doing what is essential. Our lives are brighter than the image in our Lens. 

It was around this part of the Webaholics Creed that Kyle was kicking himself for not making a second cup of coffee. All day he had been preoccupied with rashy thoughts that pulsated like neon mosquito bites. His lips were chapped for several days now and he noticed after breakfast that his lip balm smelled of mildew. Could the two have been related — causational, even? If so, he wondered which would be the chicken and which the egg. Kyle adjusted his glasses, a reflex that presented when he felt anxious, and pretended to pay attention to whoever in the group was speaking. He had a flattened face that made him appear to resent struggle and engagement. Someone had left the tinny speaker in the game room on. It was playing a Top 40 hit — Didion’s latest single, by the sound of it — her husky voice holding together the firecracker dance beat. A playful part of Kyle wanted to get up and shake his junk in every dumb face, then slap the shock off each one. Thank god they allowed Didion to be played here, he thought. Otherwise he’d truly have to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge.

Doc took a deep breath. It was her version of a smile, Kyle always thought, since she never smiled. She was middle-aged, older than most in the group. She wore a puffy neckerchief and a puffy sweater vest, both of the same ambiguous hue — mauve?

Okay, fam, she said. New member today. 

Doc gestured to one of the dozen boxes in the circle. Even though the clinic called them boxes, they were more like opaque phone booths. 

She’d prefer to stay known as her handle, said Doc. 

She? Kyle pulled his shoulder blades together — the ghost of his mother pinching his back — and lifted his slouched spine in his seat. Not that it really mattered. It wasn’t like the new girl could see him anyway.

Please welcome Apple Sue to the group, said Doc, eliciting a smattering of applause. Apple Sue is from Frisco, Texas. That’s all she’s able to tell us right now. I think we should share our stories first and model how this works. Good?

Julie started everyone off, and Kyle did all he could to not roll his eyes up to the water stain on the ceiling. It vaguely resembled the Snapchat ghost and he always imagined its wavy bottom fluttering, hypnotizing him to relapse with a good scroll. Everyone in the group probably  had similar thoughts. Julie couldn’t stop watching cat videos. Foster was an online gambler. Mark, porn addict. Eddie, no one really knew what his deal was, though some suspected a wealthy conspiracy junkie still on the government payroll. And then it was Kyle’s turn.

Hey, I’m Kyle. I’m a Webaholic. It’s been a hundred and four days since my last login to the Internet. I thought I was holding it together. Like everyone else, I thought my behavior was totally manageable. Normal, even. But I was deluding myself. Sure, for a while I was riding high. Made partner at Quartz Davis. Ten million dollar house in Cole Valley. Personal trainer at Equinox. I’d play tennis for myself, pickleball for the partners. Life was fucking sweet. But things started falling apart when I began using. It was a dating app. Jackpot. And when I say using, I mean every second of the day. Even during work. I understand now that I have an addiction problem. But it took me hitting rock bottom. Like fifty million in the red. And I swear, if my boss hadn’t lost a daughter to cyberbullying, I’d be French toast. They let me keep my job. Let me take sick leave to address my problem. I’ll tell you now, I didn’t waste a goddamn second. Took the first Uber across the Bridge. Checked myself into Clear Mind. Best decision of my life.

Thank you, Kyle, said Doc. She took a deep breath.

#

Another day of no sun. The comical foghorn bellowed, spilling the beans on where the big bridge was hiding. Kyle walked the circular field in the middle of the grounds at Cavallo Point. Back in the day, all of it used to be an army post. It was only a few years ago that Clear Mind came in to transform the bankrupt property into the primo rehab clinic it is now for Webaholics Anonymous. The area was isolated. Shrouded in fog. Wireless here sucked, which probably was the point. But Kyle felt safe here. Away from the world, which had become so increasingly trollful. He knew that being on social was destroying him, but he couldn’t look away. His Lens was a Gorgon and he turned into stone every time. And every time he was bombarded with the state of the country and the man running it, he’d get a debilitating headache. Autumn cheer would give way to a surprise cold front of disheartening decay. Hours of his life would evaporate, spent analyzing and railing and conjecturing. And in the end he would feel like the future was shrinking at an alarming rate. All the truths he knew growing up were being violated shamelessly and with cruel glee. He tried to quit cold turkey. For a few weeks, it actually worked. He even took jazz piano lessons, and he felt so fucking proud of himself. But then, he met a girl at the gym. In a few weeks, he had every dating app reinstalled on his Lens. 

Doc, in the distance, approached him. Her wispy hair danced in the bay breeze. She reminded him of his mother, when she was younger and had longer hair. How young exactly, he couldn’t remember. Doc had once asked what his earliest memories were. He strained to recall anything in that murky soup of tar. A mobile hanging above his crib, perhaps? Primary colored animals? Red elephant? Blue hippo? Or was he just making all this up? She continued probing. What else? He swam through the nothingness, straining to see something. Anything. What was that next to his mother? Laundry? Him doing laundry. No, that couldn’t be right. He was much too young for that. Rather, he was helping his mother do laundry, by scooting across the floor in his baby walker. He’d take articles of clothing from her, then place them in the dryer. 

That’s sweet, said Doc. 

Yeah, he said. Mom always said she knew I’d be a smart kid when that happened. 

So your mother has told you this story before? Then is it a real memory or a story you’ve turned into a memory? 

He didn’t really know. After a long moment of silence, he said, That’s kinda like what’s happening here, right? Like, am I really a webaholic? Or is that a story I’ve come to believe? 

Doc walked over in her Patagonia jacket, hands in her cargo pant pockets. 

How are you feeling today? she asked. No phantom Lens?

Foster did mention the Warriors-Lakers game, he said. My hand went to my eye.

Score check? That’s okay, said Doc. Recognizing these moments is what’s important. Awareness is the real work. You’re doing great. 

He nodded. Her compliment made him feel exposed. 

How’s the new patient? he asked.

Think she’ll fit in nicely, she said. And actually. I may need your help. She’s a bit shyer than shy, you know? So I’m thinking of pairing her up with you for today’s game. Good?

He adjusted his glasses.

The afternoon’s game was called Eating a Meal. Fairly self-explanatory. Everyone got paired up, sitting at patio tables covered with red gingham. There were place settings, white candles, and flowers in tin cans. It was very sitcommy Italian restaurant vibe. Kyle half-expected Billy Joel to play over the speakers. It felt like preschool to him. Playing house with Joanna Lee. She’d pretend to serve him lasagna and insist he eat it with chopsticks. These days Joanna sold life insurance.

Normally Kyle had to amuse himself by guessing which flower would be on display. Would it be the white frilly one or the orange blobby one? But this time his attention undivided on Apple Sue across from him. Four out of five times, when he finally met someone out of their box, he’d be disappointed, if not outright insulted. The ideal he created would be vaporized. It was a form of catfishing he perpetrated on himself. But Apple Sue was a very pleasant reveal. She was actually more stunning. More attractive. More of someone he wanted to know over the course of a staged Italian meal. 

Kyle started with a compliment. He liked Apple Sue’s black jumper. It accentuated her eyes. In fact, her magnetic eyes made him feel nauseous, no, more like heartburned. But in a pleasant way. He didn’t say all this to her, of course, but just thought it while waiting for a response. Instead, she looked up at him, then back down at her fork. 

Huh. Maybe she didn’t speak English.

Ni shuo zhong wen ma? he asked.

Nothing. Well. Bon appetit, Kyle said and picked up his fork. Apple Sue didn’t touch her spaghetti. She merely probed a stray noodle that flopped off her plate. Positioned it in such a way to resemble a blob triangle. Maybe she was slow in the head? She saw his expression and dipped her finger in tomato sauce. She drew two dots and a curve in the noodle triangle. A smiley face? Then it dawned on him. Poop emoji. She saw his recognition and grinned. She gestured around the room. Then pointed at the noodle mess.

This place... is shit, he said, laughing. More out of relief than anything.

They began communicating through writing. His preference was alphabet writing, much easier to do without a keyboard. But Universal Emoji worked, especially when common language was unknown. Creating emojis out of noodles and sauce proved to be a slow, sloppy process, so she brilliantly fogged up her drinking glass and drew out emojis with her finger. 

The first thing she wrote to him was a clock, followed by a finger pointing directly at user, then arrow pointing down, then question mark. He fogged up his glass and drew a moon four times. She drew a heart, finger pointing at user, then a pair of eyeglasses. He smiled and touched his eyeglasses. He took them off and let her inspect them. 

Before he knew it, thirty minutes was up and it was time for afternoon meditation. Half the group returned to their boxes. When he looked over at her box, he could picture the real Apple Sue inside. He had learned through their exchange that she was an only child whose parents were both accountants. She had gone to UT Austin to study economics, but ended up working for Delta as a stewardess, eventually transitioning to become an influencer specializing in insect cuisine. He imagined her delicate fingers caressing the plastic frames of his glasses. His mind was scrambled coding, unable to settle like the surface of a lake. Apple Sue’s perfect face bounced around in puddle splashes. Emojis poured down in a monsoon. An exotic eatery popped up along the banks, a fancy plate piled high with the daily special of braised crickets.

#

In the courtyard outside of the board game room, Kyle found Apple Sue sitting alone on a conversation bench. He asked if he could sit next to her, but she didn’t respond. So he sat there and waited. She was transfixed on a lavender plant whose terracotta pot was mysteriously smashed — an accident or the victim of a patient’s rage? The exposed soil had retained the shape of the former pot. But all its moisture had evaporated, leaving the plant an ashy skeleton. He studied the dehydrated stems and leaves and flowers, marveling at how uniform the whole plant appeared. Like concrete. A plant that decided it’d rather be stone. That was something his mother would say. She was full of playful sayings, perhaps unintentionally. The strawberry was a jealous fruit. Honey tastes bitter when you’re sad. Lavender knows how to keep a secret. He said this one out loud. But when he looked up, Apple Sue was gone. 

It was almost as if she had disappeared for good. Three days went by with no sighting. If only he could Google her, Kyle kept thinking. @AppleSue. When he closed his eyes, he imagined his Lens filling up with her handle. His heart rate became a dance beat to a Didion song. He could feel relapse creeping into him like a jealous strawberry. He needed fresh air.

He found Eddie out in the field, pushing around dirt with his shoe. They shot the shit. Kyle liked Eddie, even if he was rude to the staff and treated them like uppity servants. As a creature of the finance world, Kyle understood why rich people were such assholes, especially at fancy hotels and restaurants. The law of diminishing returns. Once you’ve stayed at a five star resort, every subsequent experience that isn’t the same or better feels brutally disappointing. 

You’re a good seed, said Eddie, bumping fists. Ever need a hit, let me know. I can help.

Later at the afternoon meeting, the group learned that Mark was caught watching porn in the bathroom. His sister had smuggled him a Lens during visiting hours. As punishment, Mark was assigned forty-eight hours of group confinement. Outside of his box, he looked like a crab pried out of its shell. Just sort of baby alien, all naked and vulnerable. Whole body trembling. 

When it was time to share happies and crappies, Kyle praised the Salisbury steak and bemoaned the Warriors losing the playoffs. But in truth, his happy and crappy were one in the same. His heart sank when Apple Sue, still in her box, opted not to share anything. Again.

The group ended the session with a game of Birthday Party. And to really pour salt in the wound, Doc chose Mark to be the birthday boy.

#

The full moon was clean and perfectly round. A giant On button. Kyle took it as an auspicious sign, granting him permission to take Eddie up on his offer. 

In the east wing, the metal key copy fit perfectly into the door lock. The familiar coat rack greeted Kyle as he slipped past the Herman Miller chairs. Bathed in moonlight, he was in a black and white film, walking through archival footage. All those sessions. Was life simply made up of moments on a screen, Doc would ask. Would that be a life? Absent of flesh and blood, or tangible moments spent in the natural world? Kyle insisted with bravado that it could be. In fact, there were entire futures seeded in each screen. An email from an ex that sat unanswered for ten years. How different his life could’ve looked had he replied? How many missed opportunities were in his inbox? In each app? How many lives could have unfurled with the planting or pruning of a single DM?

There was the usual messy clutter on Doc’s desk — a brass nameplate proclaiming DR. MONIQUE ALVAREZ, PHD in black Georgia font, several crystal corporate achievement paperweights, anime figurines that sprouted like toadstools under the trunk of the green glass bankers lamp, and her MacBook laptop that seemed to double as a carrying tray for empty kombucha bottles — but Kyle carefully cleared the bottles off and examined the boxy thing. It was old school. He still remembered using one as a kid. It required a password and he turned over the key copy to find three emojis etched into the backside. He used the Emoji selector and voila, he was in.

A rush of energy rippled through him. He had been gifted a fistful of cocaine and carte blanche access to the biggest playground in the world. His brain melted into his seat cushion. His fingers knew what to do. They ran as fast as they could carry him. He fused with the endless universes within the fifteen-inch screen. He was back in well-worn haunts. It took him no time to find the main gates of Jackpot. Fireworks exploded and the clinking of lucky coins clattered around him.

He was Apollo in his horse stable when he strolled into his Jackpot suite. The familiar group of matches were waiting for him, primming and posing, beaming at his return. But there was one new guest. He was immediately drawn to her. He introduced himself and she was glad to finally meet him. She had originally liked his response to an ideal date (courtside tickets to a Warriors game, followed by dinner at a Michelin star restaurant with a rooftop view). He had apparently liked her photo of her favorite trip (Barcelona, her hand holding a plate of tapas, the Sagrada Familia cathedral in the background). It had been months since they matched and she figured he had ghosted her. But he assured her that he had been preoccupied. In fact, this was his last time here. He really came to say goodbye and make arrangements to close his account. She thought that was a shame and asked why. With a sheepish chuckle, he admitted that he actually was in WA. She stared at him, and he thought, shit, I shouldn’t have said anything. 

Are you in Clear Mind? she asked. He didn’t respond. You are. I know. Because I am too. His blood froze. I snuck in a Lens. I’m under my duvet. Where are you? He sensed her slackening the line. He feared this was a trap. Same, he said. He wanted to know who she was. She remained quiet, grinning. Guess. Julie? She laughed. Come on, Kyle. That’s insulting.

He paused. She knew exactly who he was. 

What makes you think I’m Kyle?

Everything about you screams Kyle, she said. The ridiculous favorite date. The over-the-top confidence. The obsession with your corporate title and brand signifiers. You’re even wearing the same fucking Balenciaga glasses here. 

He self-consciously touched his glasses. She placed a hand on his chest. He touched his own chest in real life, to vicariously feel the sensation.

You liked my photo, she said. Did you even look at what I was eating? 

He summoned her photo and zoomed in on the tapas. Brittle thoraxes. Angular legs.

Apple Sue? 

She looked into his eyes. She had turned on an effect where her pupils shimmered like the surface of an oil slick on a summer morning.

My name’s not Apple Sue, she said. That’s my handle.

He waited for her real name. She leaned her head in close next to his. He couldn’t tell if she was breathing on his neck. Maybe nibbling his ear? In real life, he brushed his earlobe with his fingertips. His crotch felt warm. He exhaled, waiting for what would happen next.

She vanished.

He straightened up. What just happened? He was still in his Jackpot suite with his other matches. She must have logged off. He was sick with the thought that something was wrong. Did she get caught by one of the night nurses? His chest tightened. He tore away from the screen, logged off, and closed Doc’s laptop. It wasn’t until he was back in his bed that he realized his glasses were on top of his forehead from being readjusted so much. 

#

For some years now Kyle had accepted that he was never going to be lucky in love. Most of his friends found their better halves in their late twenties and early thirties, seemingly effortlessly, and he would smile for them with the salty taste of envy behind his teeth. How many purple nights after his coupled friends had hit their bedtimes, leaving him last man standing and bored out of his mind, would he think, if I just wait on this dance floor, or here on this barstool, something exciting will happen to me. But he’d inevitably end up alone on his futon, watching his algorithm of Youtube videos with a nauseating styrofoam container of chili cheese fries overheating his junk. Hope of a relationship calcified into resigned bachelorhood. His exquisite days became solitary and taken for granted, just another ant on Nob Hill.

The cold air stung his nose. His eyes watered. He looked up, blinking. He was suddenly at the harbor. He realized he had been walking for a long time and his big toes were feeling hot and tender. He took a seat on a concrete slab with rusted bolts and railings. It was an ancient artillery station, no longer functional. The wind swept through the brittle deergrass and created ripple patterns on the gray water, resembling a zen garden. Only once had he ever touched ocean water, during a family vacation in Maui. On primordial sandbanks blushing like guava nectar, his mother had grabbed his hand and pulled him down the slippery amphibian skin banks, into the shallow tide pool. The cold water shocked his pink skinbag body and the sands and pebbles rushed underneath his feet. His mother dunked her entire self into the briny infinite body like an otter returning home, and the best Kyle could do was attempt to remain upright as the tides pushed and pulled him, compelling him into an irregular dance. His mother laughed, thinking he looked like a zombie. And when his toes caught a sea rock the shade of congealed ox blood, he gifted it to his mother. She held it softly in her palm and told him that it was bad luck to remove a stone from the island.

Beautiful, isn’t it?

The voice startled him. Apple Sue was staring out at the water. He thought she couldn’t talk. He was done playing games. He wanted to know her real name. She watched the gulls glide like paper airplanes, amused by his irritation. 

And the box, he said. Where did your social anxiety go?

What about you, she said, tapping the side of her head. 

He reached for where his glasses should have been on his face and realized that in the chaos of the previous night, he forgot to wear them in the morning. He wanted to claim a weak prescription, but she was onto him. He had never worked for Quartz Davis. His finance experience was being a teller for Wells Fargo. 

I know your type, she said. You’re a bullshitter. 

His face felt hot. He snatched a beetle from off the ground and held it by a dangling leg. If she were really an insect food influencer, what kind of bug was this? Her lips curled up. She admitted that she wasn’t really an influencer. She was a musician. When he asked what kind of musician, she leaned in. Her nose practically brushed his. 

I’m Didion, she whispered.

He bolted upright. Didion, the artist behind last year’s song of the summer, Bachelor Buttons? He didn’t believe her. And why should he? Didion had never revealed her face. She always presented in public with an emoji face mask. Plus, if she were Didion, why would she tell him? What if he posted it? But with what? They were in Clear Mind. Okay. He softened to the possibility. Her voice did seem familiar. 

Sing something, he said.

Her lips parted slightly, glistening with moisture. Then she turned away. He detected a constellation in her marble eyes as she headed back down the hill. The bell chimed and he figured he should return to the group.

#

That night Kyle noticed a lump in his bed. He waited until lights out. He said goodnight to Jerry the nurse. Once the door slid close with a suction seal, he pulled the duvet over his head and found the Lens. 

At first he was petrified. Here was contraband in his personal bed. But the more he stared at it, the more he heard the universe telling him that this was his moment of excitement. It was all meant to be. His old friend. The familiar two-inch by two-inch rounded edges. Its sturdy thinness. He affixed the earpiece on and fitted the Lens over his right eye. It automatically powered on and he was back.

He navigated his way, using eye movements and neural intention, back into Jackpot. In his suite, he found Didion. She had her emoji mask on. This was the real deal Didion, he had no doubt now. She sang Love Prescription to an audience of one. She even replaced her lyrics when she pined over her ex Lucy, and replaced her name with Kyle. He laughed, giddy like a buffoon. When she finished he applauded. He was breathless. 

Didion sat down next to him on the bench and asked what he thought of her performance. It took him a moment to digest the fact that he was having a conversation with Didion.

Before he answered, he made a request for her to take off her mask. She was surprised, assuming he’d prefer conversing with Didion. But she took it off. He saw his original copy.

Her vulnerability inspired him. He told her that she was right, that he was a bullshitter. The sorry fact was that he had only come to Clear Mind because he couldn’t afford his rent and his mother refused to let him move back in with her. He faked a suicide attempt with placebo pills and blamed it on his web addiction. His mother was footing the bill for his rehab. As long as he didn’t show full signs of recovery and didn’t do anything to get kicked out, he could stay as long as he wanted. He felt like a child, confessing his sins, and he wanted to run away and hide. 

I’m not here for addiction either, she finally said.

At first he thought she was teasing him. He didn’t believe her. But when she repeated the statement in earnest, he asked why she came. 

Research, she said. 

Her agent had landed her a role in a prestige TikTok art house film about a tragic webaholic pop star. But it had been her own idea to check herself into rehab and gather authentic material for her character.

And how is it going so far? 

It’s bullshit, she said.

# 

For the next three weeks they met like this. In the Jackpot suite, under their covers after lights out. During the day, they were two addicts in group therapy who scarcely traded looks. But at night, under their digital cloaks, they were free. She told him stories about herself. He didn’t believe a single word. Sometimes he even caught small inconsistencies. A younger brother suddenly became an older sister. But he didn’t mind. It wasn’t the truth that mattered here. It was the effort she put in. The showing up and the willingness to create a story just for him. And after enough stories, he could piece together a sense of truth. A grand triangulation with a hundred points of fiction.

Here was what he thought he did know. He knew that she came from a religious upbringing. He knew that she never wanted to be a performer in the spotlight. She was a natural introvert in that sense, hence the mask. He knew that she was never comfortable with words. She always preferred the simplicity of emojis. He knew that she was always into music. Classically trained on piano and guitar. But how she transformed into a pop star was a giant question mark. 

His favorite version of this answer was that her sixth grade orchestra teacher had claimed that the Jurassic Park theme song was actually ripped off from an old commercial jingle for Chevy. See the USA in your Chevrolet! The idea that nothing was really new under the sun shifted a gear in her. She stopped being precious about the sanctity of genius. Music was capital. And the more value you could wring out of the same notes, the more successful you’d become. 

He noticed incremental changes with each night. She became less polished. But more focused. Less stunning. But more saturated. He realized he had finally found “her.” Her essence. Her core. Her soul. All her different stories and identities didn’t faze him anymore. They felt like masks and costumes that she could try on. A kid in a Halloween shop. And at the end of the day, he could see the person underneath.

He expressed this to her one night. She remained quiet for a long while. Finally she told him she was feeling the same way, but that she didn’t have the words for it. Just the emoji of the face with only eyes and nothing else. She found it ironic that they were feeling this online. It occurred to him that she was right. He asked her to meet him at the harbor during the next day’s break. She agreed. They both said goodnight and logged off.

He couldn’t sleep, and he woke up before sunrise. He took a long walk outside, circling the grounds. He was going to miss the routine. The simplicity. Being offline. He sat on the cold concrete of the artillery station. Across the water, the fog was lifting. The red bridge materialized in front of a bluescreen backdrop, like a digital movie set. While he waited for his Apple Sue, he had the strange thought that it would be nice to introduce her to his mother.

But a shadow bubbled to the surface. A low growl rose to a crescendo, coming from behind. He looked up. A chopper appeared overhead, barreling towards the city. It took a moment for his ears to readjust to the quiet crash of waves. 

And then he heard footsteps behind him. Many footsteps.

#