You Look Like Your Filter

A Love Letter to the Version of Me That Didn’t Need Editing

Fiction Fragment #4:

They said it like a compliment.

“You look like your filter.”

Ah yes, the modern love language: subtle insults wrapped in validation and dipped in pixelated approval.

As if distortion were the dream. As if pores were a glitch. As if the goal was to slowly morph into a better-lit version of yourself—until your own mother couldn’t pick you out in a crowd unless there was a Valencia tag hovering over your head.

I smiled, of course. The polite kind. The one that says thank you for noticing the algorithm now approves of my face.

Later, I stood in front of the mirror and tried to remember what my skin looked like before I downloaded self-worth in 1080p.
Spoiler: there were freckles. And a small scar from when I laughed too hard and walked into a street sign.
Real life, in 3D.

I scrolled through a folder labeled “Too Real to Post.”
In one, I had half a pimple and a full laugh. In another, my eye makeup had betrayed me. But at least I looked like someone who had a soul, not a sponsorship deal.

But no one double-tapped it. No fire emojis. No “slay queen.” Just silence.

So I picked the one where I looked slightly dead behind the eyes but symmetrical—and captioned it with a quote about authenticity.

Because that’s what you do when you’ve been ghostwriting your own face.

From the haunted margins of my notes app,

Lina🖤