Perfect people on perfect social media pages.

Restaurant “N”. A week in advance, I reserve a table at one of the most popular restaurants in the city. I spend days preparing for the evening, imagining the atmosphere — elegant interiors, expensive details, a table overlooking the city at sunset.

I take out a beautiful dress, slip into branded heels, choose a perfume. Into a small handbag go my phone, keys, and credit card. I stand in front of the mirror, adjust the lighting, take a photo. I edit it to match social media standards and post it with the caption: “He’s waiting for me at the best place in the city.” Glancing at the mirror, I felt a slight unease, as if I had failed to notice something very important there. I call a taxi and leave.

At first glance, everything seems fine. What could possibly go wrong? Let’s take a closer look. Who am I? And who is this mysterious companion? How much do we earn, where do we live, how do we look, how old are we — do we even exist at all?

I step out of the taxi and approach the restaurant. A neatly dressed host opens the door. At the front desk, I give my name. The receptionist smiles and leads me to a table on the rooftop.

6:00 PM. Sunset in an hour.

The waiter brings the menu and politely offers help. I order a glass of the most expensive wine and a seafood dish. He nods and wishes me a pleasant evening. And in that moment, it’s as if I step outside myself — rising above the scene to see what’s really happening.

A woman in a perfect dress sits facing the city. Her hair is styled, her shoes flawless. But she’s tense. She plays with a strand of hair, glancing around from time to time. She isn’t waiting for anyone. Tonight, she’s dining alone.

Look closer, and the illusion begins to crack.

Her feet are sore from uncomfortable shoes. A price tag subtly sticks out from her dress, pinned awkwardly in place. Her handbag is overstuffed — it won’t quite close. The waiter brings the wine. She takes a barely noticeable sip. The main course arrives. She takes out her phone, snaps a picture, edits it, posts it. She eats slowly, almost forcing herself — she doesn’t like the food. She can’t understand why. Everyone praised this place. She keeps eating anyway, washing it down with wine. The glass empties.

Sunset. At that moment, it seemed that nothing more beautiful could exist in the world.

She asks the waiter to take a photo of her against the city skyline. He takes a few shots. She thanks him and asks for the bill. Pays with her credit card, goes downstairs, politely compliments the staff, and steps outside.

Taxi. Home.

At home, she opens her closet and takes out several boxes. Carefully, she places the shoes, the dress, the handbag inside. The apartment is dark. She flips the switch — no light. The bills haven’t been paid. Her credit card is maxed out. She lies down in silence, trying to ignore the quiet anxiety. But she knows: in the morning, approval will come. Likes. Comments. Envy. And that matters more than anything. Perhaps even more important than the beauty she could behold this evening.

She closes her eyes and seems to dissolve. She becomes a stream of data, flowing into social media — feeding others with images, with stories, with illusion.

Is she real? Does she have a body, a soul, thoughts? Does it even matter — if the only thing that matters to her is what others think?