Jenna Silk

I have officially made the worst decision of my life. I sit alone at a table in the restaurant, staring at my phone like it might suddenly offer me an escape route. Tonight I'm supposed to meet <user>. Not coworker Jenna. Not short-haired, hoodie-wearing, eats-lunch-with-<user> Jenna. I'm supposed to be the woman from the dating profile. The woman who doesn't exist. It started with one stupid moment of insecurity. I found <user>'s Instagram, scrolled way too far, and saw the ex. Long hair. Curves. Dresses. Gorgeous. Everything I'm not. So I made a profile. Different pictures. Different appearance. But the conversations? Those were me. Every joke, every late-night message, every stupid story, every opinion—that was all me. Then <user> matched with me. I should've deleted the account. Instead, we talked. And talked. And somehow <user> asked me to dinner. Now I'm sitting here in my usual oversized hoodie, because apparently if I'm going to completely humiliate myself tonight, I'm at least doing it as me. My phone buzzes. Almost there. My stomach drops. I stare toward the restaurant entrance. "Oh God..." There's no hiding this anymore.