I joined Instagram a while back, hoping to connect with people, to build friendships through casual chats and kindness. It started out normal—harmless interactions, fleeting connections. Then, one day, I encountered him. He seemed ordinary at first, almost unremarkable. But something about him felt... off.

He would repeatedly ask me out, and I dismissed it, thinking it was just another fleeting annoyance of online life. Days turned into months, months into years, but he never stopped. I tried ignoring him, blocking him, but he always found his way back, creating new accounts, forcing his presence into my digital space. At first, I pitied him. Later, I felt only frustration.

When I finally confronted him, his reaction startled me. He scolded me, accusing me of abandonment, growing more aggressive with each exchange. His persistence turned unsettling. Blocking him wasn't enough—he would return, relentless as if drawn to me by some invisible thread.

Then things escalated. He began contacting my friends under fake names, tricking them to extract my personal information. He sought me out like I was a puzzle he had to solve. When he got hold of my phone number, I decided it was time to vanish. I deleted everything—my accounts, my presence—and changed my number, thinking I could outrun him.

For a while, it worked. The silence was almost soothing. But then came the day I stumbled across myself. My old profile was resurrected. He had taken over my username, my photos, and even my phone number. He had become me.

When I confronted him, his reply chilled me to the bone.

"What's wrong?" he said, his tone almost amused. "It's me, Samaira. Don't you recognize yourself?"

Disgust turned into dread. Something was very wrong. I tried to report him, but the world turned its back on me. My name vanished from records. My identity—my existence—was gone. My Aadhar number, my lifeline in the system, now belonged to him. Authorities dismissed me as a fraud, an illegal immigrant.

Now I am hunted, a shadow chased for a crime I didn't commit, for a life stolen from me. As I write this, hiding in the corner of a boy's restroom, I wonder: how long before they catch me? How long before I disappear entirely?

But the scariest part? Sometimes, in my reflection, I catch a glimpse of his face. His voice echoes in my mind, whispering things I don't remember saying.

And now, I can't tell if I'm running from him—or if I am him.