In a parallel universe, people don’t wake up and check whether they can breathe. They check LikeMeter first—because oxygen is secondary and approval is the primary resource. Pulse checks are considered primitive; now there’s an “Existence Score”: green means alive, yellow means semi-human, red means sorry—you didn’t post last night, so the system moved you into the “drafts” folder.

The sacred device here is LikeMeter™: it doesn’t attach to your heart, it attaches to your ego; it doesn’t connect to your veins, it connects to the feed. It shows three numbers: Likes, Validation, Existence. “Me” isn’t a feeling in this world—it’s a dashboard. People don’t feel themselves; they report themselves. You go to the doctor and they don’t ask “How are you?” They ask, “What’s your engagement?” You can be running a 39°C fever, but if you hit the Explore page, you’re clinically fine.

Your natural state is classified as “raw data”: risky, embarrassing, not safe for sharing. Because raw data summons reality—and reality can’t be optimized, sponsored, or monetized. That’s why the Ministry of Filters exists, and it takes its job seriously: under-eyes are sealed as “truth leakage,” skin texture is softened as “excessively human detail,” asymmetry is corrected as “low engagement risk.” They call this “self-love”: you love yourself so much you never actually use yourself. Everyone only knows each other’s marketable build; the real face is a background system file—touch it and it crashes.

But the true fuel of the system is notifications: the modern call to prayer—“You matter right now.” Phones aren’t phones; they’re handheld Pavlov bells. When it buzzes, shoulders drop, eyes dim, the soul relocates into the device for a second. They don’t call it addiction; they call it “active user.” Free will exists too—exclusively during the moments the phone isn’t vibrating. The trilogy runs flawlessly: LikeMeter measures your existence, the Filter edits your existence, the Notification reminds your existence.

Then “life” begins. Nobody checks mirrors—local verification is useless; they check LikeMeter. If the score turns yellow, panic: “Who was I last night?” The filter opens, the face updates, the notification is awaited. If it doesn’t arrive, the crisis escalates: “Nobody is validating me… I think I’m shutting down.” Relationships are advanced here as well: no one says “I love you,” they say “I saved you.” Romance begins with Close Friends access; breakups end with “engagement incompatibility.” Even therapists don’t prescribe breathing exercises—they optimize posting times.

The system’s only fear is silence. Because in silence, people hear their inner voice—and the inner voice has a fatal defect: it produces no statistics, runs no ads, and worst of all, it tells the truth. So every night LikeMeter sends a polite report: “Today you existed 24 times. You were optimized 9 times. You were rewarded by the bell 6 times. You were briefly human once. Not compliant with platform standards. Do not repeat.” And the universe’s slogan is refreshingly clear: You can be real. But why bother?