The Names of Twelve Accounts

3 AM.

The only light in the room came from twelve phone screens — each one a small blue swimming pool. And I was alive, right there in the middle of them.

To my left was the Redmi. The first phone my boss ever gave me. The battery had been replaced twice. There was a crack across the screen I’d never bothered to fix. The account on that phone, I called it “the Senate.” That wasn’t my name for it — one night around 2 AM I looked at the phone and said, “You’re my firstborn,” and that’s when I realized I was talking to a phone. Fine. I’m that guy. The single parent. The late-night radio DJ. Except my callers are people who will never, ever call in.

I started calling it Old Red.

Old Red’s screen was lit. On it was an account belonging to a woman in her early thirties, going by “Ada in Taipei.” The persona liked fitness and brunch. It took me three months to age her personality from twenty-two to twenty-eight, because I figured a twenty-two-year-old wouldn’t be asking “do you want to grab a bulletproof coffee tomorrow” at 2 AM. This account had interacted with over four hundred people. One of them — a real woman — actually asked Ada out. Ada said she wasn’t feeling well and cancelled. The woman replied, “No worries, let’s do it next time.”

Next time. I don’t know when that was. I only know she’s the only real human being who has ever met Ada. And Ada is not real.

I moved my mouse over the “Delete Account” button.

If I clicked it, the account would die. The name, the posts, every interaction — gone. No “next time.” That woman would probably never know that the “not feeling well” was technically true — it was just someone else feeling bad. The person behind the screen feeling bad.

I pulled my hand away from the mouse.

No. Not Ada. Not first. Ada isn’t even the first account I created. I need to start with the easy ones. I told myself that.

The sixth phone was lit. That was Ah Zhi’s.

Ah Zhi was created in the third month, when I wanted to test a theory: if a persona is detailed enough, will real people gravitate toward it on their own? Ah Zhi, thirty-five, from Taipei, into camping and coffee. I’d built him a backstory with two hundred travel posts, even wrote his favorite coffee bean origin into his profile. I told myself this was a test. This was work.

Six months later, a woman started leaving comments on every one of Ah Zhi’s coffee shop posts. I ignored her. He posted five more. She came back and said, “Take me next time.” I googled the address of that coffee shop, thought about it all night, and the next day replied from Ah Zhi’s account: “Sure, let’s set something up.”

And then she actually opened a coffee shop. In Da’an District. I don’t know if it was because of me. For a while I refreshed her feed every day from Ah Zhi’s account — like a stalker. Her name was Xiao Zhen. On the opening post for her shop, Ah Zhi hit the like button. Ah Zhi’s like was my finger. My finger was Lin Yuan’s finger. Xiao Zhen would never know any of this. She thought “Ah Zhi” was a thirty-five-year-old guy from Taipei who liked camping and coffee. That person didn’t exist.

On screen, Ah Zhi’s profile. Two hundred and thirty-seven posts. Twenty-seven thousand likes. Two thousand three hundred comments. I treated it like a work report. But what were those numbers, really? Two thousand three hundred real conversations — each and every one of them me, playing a role. Thirty-seven people had called him “Zhi-ge.” Fifteen had asked him for coffee shop recommendations. Six had asked him where to go camping in Taipei. I didn’t lie to them. I just didn’t tell them the whole truth.

Now I’m deleting posts. Not regular posts — the ones where people called him by name. As I deleted them, I felt like an asshole. The relationship between me and Ah Zhi was fake, but my attachment to him was real. The post count on screen was dropping — 2,300 to 2,200, 2,200 to 2,100. I was numbering each one in my head: “the coffee shop one,” “the campsite recommendation one,” “the one where she called me Zhi-ge and asked if I had a girlfriend” — until only one post was left. Ah Zhi’s first post. A camping photo. Caption: “Weekend trip up the mountain to recharge.”

Five comments underneath.

First one: “So beautiful! Take me next time.” Second: “Which campsite?” Third: “I’m so jealous.” Fourth: “Zhi-ge, how often do you go?” Fifth: “Did the recharge work?”

Fifth was from Xiao Zhen. I remember that comment was posted last April, back when Xiao Zhen had just met Ah Zhi, still figuring out what kind of person this account was. She asked “Did the recharge work?” — sounded like she was talking about camping, but I knew she meant something else. She was asking how Ah Zhi was doing.

I didn’t reply. Not because I couldn’t — of course I could, I replied to things every day — but because I didn’t dare. And in that moment I thought: if Ah Zhi said “All recharged,” would that be a lie? If he said “No,” would that be the truth? If he said “Still charging,” would that be a joke only I would understand?

I hit reply. The text box appeared. I typed two characters: “Not yet.”

Sent.

I stared at those two words for a full minute. “Not yet.” At that moment I almost wanted to laugh — 3 AM, using another man’s account, replying to another woman’s question about whether he had recharged. If someone saw this conversation, they’d think it was some absurd segment on a late-night radio show: the woman asks “Did the recharge work?” and the man says “Not yet.” But this was my job. This was how I made a living. The two comments sat side by side — one from Xiao Zhen, one from mine — no, from Ah Zhi’s. From the account’s.

3:27 AM. I’m on Ah Zhi’s account, replying to a woman named Xiao Zhen.

My phone rang.

Not a work phone — my own. The screen said “Mom.”

I answered.

“Have you eaten?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you eat?”

”…Instant noodles.”

“Not instant noodles again.” There was a hint of frustration in her voice, but she didn’t push. She never pushed. Every time she wanted to ask more, she’d switch tactics — “Your coworkers were saying how’s the company doing,” “The neighbor asked if you’re still hiring,” “Did you finish that project you mentioned last time” — circling around the question. I don’t know if she genuinely wanted to know or if she was just filling the silence.

“Busy lately?” she asked.

“Pretty busy.”

“So… when are you coming home?”

I started counting. Fourth time this month. Last month was three. The month before that was two. In the past three years I’d turned down every chance to go home, always saying “pretty busy lately,” then counting the attempts on my end of the phone. Mom didn’t know how many phones in this room were lit up. She didn’t know I was still posting at 3 AM every night. She didn’t know I’d “socialized” with three thousand people but hadn’t shared a single meal with any of them.

“Wrapping up a project,” I said. “I’ll head back once it’s done.”

A pause on the other end.

“You always say you’re wrapping up,” Mom said. “You said it last time. And the time before that.”

“This time it’s for real.” I said it and immediately regretted it. I’d said that before. Too many times.

Mom let out a soft laugh on the line — the quiet kind. “Okay,” she said. “Then I’ll call again after you’ve wrapped it up.” Then she told me not to overdo it, and hung up.

I set the phone down and looked at the light from the twelve phones.

Mom asked when I’d come home. But I didn’t know where home was. Was this it? This room with twelve phones glowing, and no one waiting for me? This place with three thousand “friends,” and not one of them who knew my name? This place with Ah Zhi, and Ada, and Old Red — a hundred accounts I’d named, and not one of them real?

Only Mom was real. And I didn’t know how to tell her what was in this room.

I turned back to the computer screen. Ah Zhi’s profile was still open. The last comment was still there: “Not yet.”

I opened Ah Zhi’s profile settings. Age: thirty-five. Gender: male. Location: Taipei. Interests: camping, coffee. Occupation: blank. I left the occupation field empty, because I couldn’t figure out what Ah Zhi should do for a living. He should have a regular job, come home, stop by a coffee shop, go up the mountain on weekends. And then, at 3 AM, be operated by someone else saying “Not yet.”

I closed Ah Zhi’s profile. Opened a document — a list of accounts I’d created three years ago.

Old Red, Ada, Ah Zhi, Big Xiong, Joyce… scrolled down, and the last name was Xiao Mei.

She was the last account I created, toward the end of last year. By then I’d already been thinking about giving up, but Old Red was still lit, so I told myself to create just one more. Xiao Mei’s persona was a nurse on a long-term assignment, working in Kaohsiung. I’d given her a complete rotation schedule to make her look like someone who actually had a job. She’d interacted with about twenty people. One guy asked her “Do nurses see a lot of life and death?” and she replied, “You see enough of it, and you go numb.”

That reply was mine.

Xiao Mei. The last account I created. If I’m going to delete accounts, should I start with her or end with her?

I don’t know.

My phone buzzed again. Not Mom — a DingTalk message from the work group. CTO Xu Chengze posted: “Team, servers go offline today at 4 PM. Please back up your personal data.”

4 PM. Less than fourteen hours from now.

I looked at the message, then set the phone back on the desk. The twelve phones were still lit. They didn’t know yet. They didn’t know that after 4 PM today, this whole world would stop existing. They didn’t know they’d never really existed at all.

I turned back to the computer screen. Ah Zhi’s profile was still open. I moved my mouse over the delete button.

This time, I didn’t pull my hand away.

I clicked.

A dialog box popped up: “Are you sure you want to delete this account? This action cannot be undone.”

I stared at that line, and I remembered what the CTO said: “After thirty days, the data enters an overwrite state.” In thirty days, all of this would technically be gone — no trace anyone ever knew it was here. But until then, it was still here. And so was I.

I clicked “Cancel.”

The account was still alive.

I didn’t know why. Maybe it was because Ah Zhi and Xiao Zhen still had an unfinished conversation. Maybe it was because that “Take me next time” was still out there. Maybe it was because at 3:27 AM, the “Not yet” was the only time in three years I felt like I was telling the truth.

I leaned back in my chair and watched the light from the twelve phones.

Mom said not to overdo it. The CTO said back up your personal data. Old Red was still lit. Ah Zhi’s profile was still open. I was here, in a room at 3:27 AM, surrounded by three thousand accounts, feeling more alone than I’d ever felt in my life.

I picked up my own phone and sent Mom a message: “I’m coming home this weekend.”

After I sent it, I stared at the screen for a long time. Mom didn’t reply. Maybe she was asleep. Maybe she didn’t know what to say back. Maybe she thought this was another lie before a “wrapping up.”

I didn’t care. I put the phone down, and turned back to the computer.

The twelve phones were still lit. I had thirty days — maybe less than thirty days.

I started going through the accounts one by one, saving screenshots of their profiles to the hard drive. Not for exposure. Not for justice. Just in case — someday — I wanted to know what I’d been doing for three years. At least I’d have something to look at.

Something to look at.

I opened Xiao Mei’s profile and looked at her last post — a photo of a coffee shop in Kaohsiung. Caption: “Rare day off.” Three comments underneath. Two asking where it was. One saying “Let’s go together sometime.”

The person who wrote “Let’s go together sometime” — I’d looked into their account. A real guy, thirty years old, worked in Taipei, had been to Kaohsiung a few times. He didn’t know Xiao Mei was fake. He just thought her photos looked nice, and he wanted to get coffee with her.

I took a screenshot of that, saved it to the hard drive.

The folder was named “Names of the Twelve Accounts.” When I created it, I’d thought about a lot of names — “Evidence,” “Backup,” “Personas,” “Digital Remains” — and settled on the one I did.

Because they all had names. Because I created all of them. Because while they were alive, I felt like I was alive too.

3:45 AM.

Less than twelve hours left.