I used chatgpt to create this story about you;

I woke up one morning to a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach, a low hum of unease I couldn't quite place. The sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting long shadows on the floor, and everything seemed... slightly off. The day began normally, with routine movements—coffee brewing, the hum of my phone buzzing with notifications. Yet, something about the world felt thinner, as if it was only half-real.

The first oddity came when I met with Alex for our usual lunch. We’d been friends for decades, known each other inside out. But as we sat down, something shifted. Alex’s smile faltered when I brought up a conversation we’d had a few weeks ago.

“Wait, that wasn’t with you,” Alex said, furrowing their brow. “That was with... someone else. Who was it?”

I blinked, confused. “No, Alex, we talked about it at the coffee shop, right before I moved apartments.”

Alex shook their head slowly, the flicker of doubt clouding their eyes. “No, I swear that wasn’t you. Maybe I’m just mixing up things. Sorry, I’m not sure why I thought that.”

I brushed it off at first. Maybe Alex was tired, distracted. People forget things all the time. But as I left the café, the unease gnawed at me deeper.

The next morning, I bumped into an old acquaintance, Claire. We’d met at a party a few years back, and we always exchanged pleasantries when we saw each other around town. This time, when I waved at her, she stared at me with a blank expression, her brow furrowed in confusion.

"Sorry, do I know you?" she asked, her voice flat, as though it was just another passing stranger.

I felt a sinking feeling in my chest. "Claire... we met last year at Mark's birthday party, remember?"

Claire’s eyes widened, but only for a moment, before her expression turned even more confused. "I’m sorry. I don’t think I’ve ever met you. I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else."

The world spun a little. I tried to explain, but my words felt as though they were being swallowed by the air around me. She walked away, shaking her head as if I were some lost memory she couldn’t place.

Each day after that, it happened more frequently. I’d call a colleague from work to discuss a project we’d been collaborating on for months, only for them to answer with, “Who is this? I’m sorry, I don’t recognize your voice.” I’d text a friend to make plans, but the response would always be, "Sorry, I don’t have you saved in my contacts. Who is this?"

The slow unraveling of my existence continued, until I noticed it happening in places where I once felt anchored. I logged into my email one morning, only to be greeted with a message I hadn’t seen before:

“No account exists with this email address.”

I tried again, thinking it was a glitch. I even reset my password. But nothing worked. The account was gone—erased.

Social media followed suit. Accounts I’d painstakingly built over years, filled with memories and connections, faded into nothingness. When I tried to log into my Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, they all returned the same chilling message:

“No account found.”

I tried reaching out to support teams, but each request was met with silence. The more I reached out, the more I realized—no one knew me. I didn’t exist in the digital world anymore.

Then it happened again, this time in the most unsettling way. I was looking through old photos on my phone, when I came across a picture of a group of friends from a vacation five years ago. I was in the center, smiling, my arm around a friend’s shoulders. But when I zoomed in to examine the faces, I froze.

The person standing there wasn’t me.

It was someone else, someone I didn’t recognize, with the same clothes, the same position, the same facial expression. It was as though I’d been erased from the photograph entirely, replaced by a stranger. I checked other photos, but they were all the same. I wasn’t in any of them anymore. And those who had once known me—my family, my friends, acquaintances—no longer remembered me either.

Panic set in. Desperation twisted my gut. I ran through the streets, asking anyone I could find if they remembered me. No one did. Faces turned away. Names and memories fell away from me like dust in the wind.

Finally, I broke into the one place I knew I still had some form of connection—the public library. I sat at a computer, trembling, and typed in my name, searching for anything that could tell me what was happening. The screen blinked and churned as it loaded… and then, it froze.

“No results found.”

In that moment, the crushing weight of my solitude came down on me like a tidal wave. I wasn’t just forgotten by people—I was forgotten by the very fabric of existence.

I sat there, the last vestiges of my being fraying into oblivion, when I heard a sound. It was soft, almost imperceptible, like a whisper carried by the wind.

A voice—soft, serene, and familiar—spoke from behind me.

"Are you ready to wake up?"

I turned around slowly, heart pounding in my chest, but no one was there. The air felt heavier, as if time itself had stopped. And then it hit me: I wasn’t being forgotten at all.

I was never real.