Read Vanished Views free: the opening chapter

Static: Perfect Feed | Missing Signal

The chipped nail polish on my thumb caught the light from my phone screen. Another scroll. Another perfectly angled photo of Maya Rodriguez, lounging by the pool like it's a permanent state of being. Seriously? It was still, like, fifty degrees out.

“Ugh,” I mumbled, but didn't bother looking up. It wasn’t hate, exactly. Maya and I weren’t enemies. More like…ships passing in the digital night. She was all sunshine and sponsored posts, and I was…well, I was mostly just online. Lurking. Observing.

Her caption read: “Golden hour vibes ✨ Pool days are the BEST! #summervibes #blessed #poollife.” The comments were a tidal wave of heart-eye emojis and “goals” declarations. It always felt a little fake, you know? Like everyone was performing for an audience that didn’t actually see them.

I glanced at my own TikTok profile. Three videos. Three. Each one carefully planned, then scrapped before I could actually post. I couldn’t even manage a decent lip sync. Skye, my sister, would laugh. She’d probably film a “Liv tries to be TikTok famous” video and get a million views. She was good at everything she touched, especially online.

---

The next feed was even more aggressively cheerful. Chloe Bennett, radiating privilege from her family’s yacht. She was practically drowning in designer swimwear and perfectly tousled hair.

“Sailing into the weekend! 🛥️☀️ Who needs school when you have this view? #yachtlife #summer #spoiled #noregrets”

I swiped past, feeling a familiar pinch of…something. Not jealousy, not exactly. More like a weird disconnect. Chloe lived in a different universe. Her biggest problem seemed to be deciding which limited-edition handbag to buy. Mine was avoiding eye contact in the school hallway.

A notification popped up. Leo Maxwell had gone live on TikTok. He was one of those “aesthetic” creators. Moody lighting, grainy filters, slow-motion shots of, like, raindrops on a window. It was…artsy, I guess.

He was filming his bedroom. Not in a messy, teenage-boy way, but in a curated, “I effortlessly inhabit a cool, minimalist space” way.

“Okay, so, working on a new edit,” he said, his voice low and breathy. “Trying to capture the feeling of…isolation. You know? That disconnect between how we present ourselves online and how we actually feel?”

Okay, that I could relate to.

“It’s like,” he continued, adjusting a vintage lamp, “we’re all building these little digital castles, and then we’re surprised when we feel empty inside.”

A few comments scrolled by. “deep,” “mood,” “relatable.” Leo was good at this. He made feeling sad look…stylish.

I almost commented, something like, “Yeah, tell me about it,” but then I stopped. What was the point? He wouldn't even see it. He had, like, a million followers. I was just a ghost in the machine.

---

Then, I landed on Skye’s profile. And everything felt different.

Her feed wasn’t about yachts or designer bags. It wasn’t even about the perfect aesthetic. It was about life. Real, vibrant, messy life. Skye was a whirlwind of energy, always laughing, always doing something interesting. Surfing lessons, volunteering at the animal shelter, late-night ice cream runs with friends.

And she made it look easy. Like she woke up every day and decided to just…shine.

Her latest TikTok was a short clip of her dancing on the beach, the sun setting behind her. She was wearing a bright yellow sundress, her hair flying in the wind. She looked genuinely happy.

“Golden hour magic ✨ Life is too short to be anything but happy! #sunset #beachvibes #goodvibes #summer #happy”

The comments were overflowing with adoration. “Queen!” “Icon!” “Skye is everything!”

I knew, logically, that it wasn’t the whole story. Skye struggled with anxiety. She worried about school, about college, about living up to everyone’s expectations. But she never let any of that show online. She’d perfected the art of the curated self.

“She’s amazing,” my mom said, walking past and glancing at my phone. “So full of life.”

I nodded, feeling a knot tighten in my stomach. Skye was supposed to meet me for coffee tomorrow. We hadn’t really talked in days. She’d been busy, naturally. Always busy.

“She's got a gift for making everything look…effortless,” I said quietly.

My mom smiled. “That’s Skye. She just radiates positivity.”

---

I kept scrolling. Something felt off. It was subtle, but it was there. A weird stillness. A lack of recent posts. Usually, Skye was posting multiple times a day. Stories, TikToks, photos…she was a content machine.

I checked her Instagram. The last post was from yesterday. A picture of a smoothie bowl, captioned: “Fueling up for a busy day! 🍓🍌🥝 #healthylifestyle #breakfast #smoothie.” It looked…staged. Forced.

Then I noticed something even stranger. Her story highlights were gone. All of them. Usually, she had a dozen different highlights: travel, fashion, food, funny moments. Now, there was just a blank space where they used to be.

I refreshed the page. Still gone.

A cold feeling started to creep up my spine. This wasn't like Skye. She was obsessed with documenting her life. She wouldn’t just delete all her stories without saying anything.

I tried calling her. Straight to voicemail. I sent a text: “Hey, everything okay? You’ve been quiet.”

No response.

I refreshed her TikTok again, hoping to see a new post. Nothing. Just the dancing video from the beach, looping endlessly.

Something was seriously wrong.

I showed my mom. “Look at this. Her stories are gone. And she’s not answering her phone.”

My mom frowned. “Maybe she’s just busy. You know how she gets when she’s working on a project.”

“But the stories, Mom! And she always responds to my texts.”

My mom’s face was starting to show concern. “Okay, okay. Let’s not panic. Maybe she just needs some space.”

But I knew, deep down, that this wasn’t about needing space. This was something else. Something bad.

I grabbed my laptop, my fingers trembling. I needed to find out what was going on. I opened Skye's TikTok and started to scroll, further and further back. Hoping for a clue. Anything.

Then I saw it. A TikTok posted just hours before her last one. It was a short, blurry clip of her walking along the beach, looking over her shoulder. The audio was distorted, almost muffled. But I could make out a few words.

“They’re watching…” she seemed to whisper. “…I need to…”

The video ended abruptly.

And then the screen went black.

The account was…gone. Deleted.

My breath hitched in my throat. Skye’s entire online presence. Vanished.

And a single, terrifying thought echoed in my mind: She didn't just disappear. Someone made her.

…Someone made her.

My mom gasped beside me. “Deleted? Are you sure?”

I frantically retyped “SkyeMillerOfficial” into the TikTok search bar. Nothing. No account existed with that username. I checked Instagram. Same result. Her profile was gone. Wiped clean. It was as if she had never been.

“It’s gone, Mom. Everything. It’s like she never existed online.”

The color drained from my mom’s face. “This is…really strange.”

I felt a wave of nausea. Skye wasn’t just a friend; she was a presence. She built a whole world online, a perfectly curated version of herself. And now, that world was just…gone. It was unsettling, deeply unsettling.

“Remember how much work she put into her feed?” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “The lighting, the angles, the filters…it was a full-time job.”

My mom nodded slowly. “She was always talking about ‘the algorithm’ and ‘engagement’ and ‘brand partnerships.’”

Skye, Leo, and Chloe. The holy trinity of social media influencers at our high school. They weren't just popular; they were professionally popular. Leo was the brooding artist, posting moody photography and cryptic poetry. His feed was all black and white, shadows and longing. Chloe was the fashionista, showcasing designer outfits and makeup tutorials. Her aesthetic was bright, bold, and unapologetically glamorous. And Skye…Skye was the lifestyle guru. Travel, fitness, healthy eating, positive vibes. She made it all look effortless, attainable, and aspirational.

But it was all an illusion, wasn’t it? A carefully constructed facade designed to attract likes, followers, and sponsorships. I remembered countless conversations with Skye about the pressure to maintain the perfect image. The anxiety of a bad photo, the dread of negative comments, the constant need to create content.

“She always said it was exhausting,” I mumbled, remembering a late-night vent session after a particularly stressful photoshoot. “But she couldn’t stop. She said she was addicted to the validation.”

My mom squeezed my hand. “It sounds like it.”

I scrolled through my own Instagram, feeling a pang of guilt. My feed was a mess. Random photos of my dog, blurry concert shots, the occasional half-hearted attempt at a “candid” selfie. I didn’t do Instagram. I didn’t understand the appeal of broadcasting my life to the world.

Leo and Chloe, though, they were pros. Their feeds were masterpieces of self-promotion. They understood the power of branding, the importance of consistency, the art of the perfect post.

I pulled up Leo’s profile. His latest post was a black and white photo of a rainy window, captioned: “Lost in thought. 🌧️” Typical Leo. He hadn’t mentioned Skye. He rarely mentioned anything personal. He kept his cards close to his chest.

Chloe’s feed was a whirlwind of color and fashion. Her last post was a sponsored ad for a new line of lip gloss. She looked flawless, as always. No mention of Skye either. Just a perfectly posed photo and a glowing endorsement.

It felt…wrong. Both of them were acting like nothing was happening. Like Skye hadn’t just vanished into thin air.

“Do you think they know something?” I asked my mom.

“I don’t know, honey. Maybe they’re just as shocked as we are.”

I wasn’t convinced. Leo and Chloe were always in the loop. They had their fingers on the pulse of everything happening at school, online, and beyond. If something was going on, they would know.

I decided to check TikTok again, this time searching for Olivia Hayes. Skye had mentioned her a few times, always with a mix of admiration and…something else. Envy, maybe?

Olivia Hayes was a rising star on TikTok. She had almost a million followers, and her content was wildly popular. Short, funny skits, relatable memes, and dance challenges. But what really set her apart was her energy. She seemed genuinely carefree, radiating joy and authenticity.

I scrolled through her videos, and I started to understand what Skye had been envious of. Olivia wasn’t trying to be perfect. She embraced her flaws, her awkwardness, her imperfections. She was just…herself.

And that was exactly what Skye wasn't.

I noticed a pattern in Olivia’s videos. She often filmed in the same locations as Skye: the beach, the coffee shop, the park. And sometimes, in the background, I could see a fleeting glimpse of Skye. Standing a little apart, watching Olivia with a wistful expression.

I clicked on one of Olivia’s recent videos. It was a silly dance challenge, filmed on the beach. And in the background, clear as day, was Skye. She was sitting on a bench, looking at her phone. Her expression was unreadable.

But then I noticed something else. A figure standing behind Skye. A tall, shadowy figure. The video was blurry, and the figure was partially obscured, but it definitely wasn’t Olivia.

I paused the video, zooming in on the figure. It was a man. He was wearing a dark hoodie and sunglasses, even though it was a cloudy day. He was standing very close to Skye, and he seemed to be…watching her.

A shiver ran down my spine. The man looked menacing, predatory. He didn’t belong in the carefree world of TikTok dances and beach vibes.

I scrolled through Olivia’s other videos, searching for the man. And I found him. In several of them. Always lurking in the background, always watching Skye.

I saved a screenshot of the man’s face, and then I sent it to my mom. “Mom, look at this. This guy is in the background of Olivia’s videos. He’s always watching Skye. I think he might be involved in her disappearance.”

My mom stared at the screenshot, her face pale. “Oh my god. That’s…that’s terrifying.”

“I know, right? I think Skye was scared of him. Remember that last TikTok, the one where she said ‘They’re watching?’ I think she was talking about this guy.”

My mom grabbed her phone and started dialing 911. “I’m calling the police. This is serious.”

As she spoke to the operator, I continued to scroll through Olivia’s TikTok, searching for any other clues. And then I found it. A comment on one of her videos. A comment from Skye.

It was a simple comment, but it sent a chill down my spine.

“Help me,” it read. “Please, someone help me.”

The comment had been posted just hours before Skye’s account was deleted. It was a desperate plea, a cry for help. And no one had noticed.

I stared at the comment, my heart pounding in my chest. Skye hadn’t just disappeared. She had been trying to tell someone she was in danger. And now, it might be too late.

The curated self. The perfect image. The relentless pursuit of likes and followers. It had all been a distraction. A mask hiding a desperate plea for help. And we had all been too busy looking at the surface to see what was lurking beneath.

The screen of my laptop glowed in the darkness, a silent testament to the vanished views and the secrets they held. The pressure to present a flawless online persona had cost Skye everything. And I knew, with a sickening certainty, that this was just the beginning.

The sample ends here.