Part 1Beating My Catfisher At His Game

The screen of my phone flickered to life, casting a cold, blue glow across my darkened dorm room. It was a message from her.

“Babe, I’m so down right now. You’re the only one who truly understands me. Can we talk?”

I stared at the words, my heart hammering against my ribs—not with the fluttering excitement of a lover, but with the cold, hard rhythm of a survivor. I tapped out a response: “Of course.”

No one would have guessed that three months from now, this "sweet" digital romance would be the thing that dragged me into a bottomless abyss.

In my past life, the day the prestigious Ivy-Track Fellowship list was posted, our department’s group chat didn't explode with congratulations. It exploded with screenshots.

Tyler—my roommate, the man I shared a cramped twelve-by-twelve space with—had posted everything. Every late-night confession, every vulnerable secret, every "babe" and "sweetheart." It turned out the person who had been checking in on me, the "girl" who had become my emotional crutch, was just Tyler using a burner account.

The mockery from my peers had been a tidal wave.

“He acts all high and mighty in class, but look at him—he’s just a desperate loser.”

“‘I can’t wait to hold you’? God, that’s pathetic. Doesn’t he have any self-respect?”

In that life, I had walked into our room only to find Tyler holding up his phone, a cruel smirk plastered on his face. “Oh, hey, Babe. You’re finally back.”

“Why?” my voice had trembled. “Why would you do this?”

He had just shrugged, utterly indifferent to the life he was ruining. “It was fun. I wanted everyone to see what the ‘Ice King’ of the Honors College looks like when he’s begging for a little attention.”

When he saw the look on my face, he rolled his eyes. “Don't act so holier-than-thou. You’re the one who said all that cheesy shit. If you’re embarrassed, maybe you shouldn't have been such a simp.”

Then, another screenshot hit the group chat. It was something I’d said in a moment of extreme weakness: I think I’m starting to depend on you too much. I don’t know what I’d do without you.

Tyler’s caption underneath it read: He was practically crying when he typed this. I was in the top bunk laughing so hard I nearly choked.

From that day on, I was a pariah. The "Lapdog" of Northwood University. The humiliation triggered a spiral of clinical depression. When Tyler found out, he just laughed. “Depressed? Why don’t you just get it over with and jump then?”

And eventually, I did.

But then I opened my eyes. I was back. Three months before the fellowship announcement. Three months before the end.

This time, I had a head start.

* * *

“Babe, it’s so good to have you.”

The light from the screen made my eyes ache. I looked at the chat window, my mind a whirlwind of static and sharpened glass.

In my previous life, I had just finished a grueling research project. "She"—claiming to be a student from a rival university—had added me. She was kind, attentive, and occasionally played the victim to get me to care for her. I started staying up until 2:00 AM to talk to her. I became dependent.

She always knew exactly what I was thinking. She always appeared right when I was at my lowest. She called it "soul-connection."

I realized now it was just proximity. Tyler was in the bunk above me; he saw every sigh, every tear, every exhausted slump of my shoulders. Every secret I told "her" was a weapon he was carefully sharpening. He was waiting for the fellowship announcement—the moment of my greatest triumph—to slit my throat with them.

I sent a few non-committal replies. It didn’t take long for him to show his hand.

“Babe, can you do me a huge favor?”

“I’m trying to organize this massive pile of research data for my thesis. It’s too much; I’m drowning.”

“You’re so brilliant... could you help me out? Just this once?”

I stared at the screen, my fingers hovering over the keys.

“What kind of data?”

He replied instantly with a zip file. “Just these. No rush, take your time.”

I didn't even need to open it to know what it was. It was a tedious, high-level task—literature reviews, data cross-referencing, statistical modeling. In my last life, I didn't just do this for him; I wrote him a second, polished report just to be "sweet."

Later, when I was at my lowest, he told me that that specific report was what got him into the good graces of Charlotte, a wealthy socialite whose father sat on the university board. They were engaged within the semester.

“You know,” he had mocked me then, “your writing was actually decent. She loved it. She bought me dinner and called me a genius. Thanks for the leg up, Babe.”

I stared at the screen now, a cold smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.

“Sure. I’ll help you.”

A string of exclamation points followed. “You’re the best, Babe!”

I put the phone down, turned on my desk lamp, and opened my laptop. I pulled the sources, I checked the references, and I meticulously organized the data.

At 1:30 AM, I saved the file and sent it.

He replied immediately. “Thanks! You’re a lifesaver!”

“Get some sleep, don’t work too hard.”

I sent back a smiling emoji.

In my last life, doing this made me feel like I was building a future with someone who loved me. In this life, it just made me feel nauseous.

The next morning, Tyler was up early. He showered, put on a crisp new shirt, and strapped on a flashy watch he’d clearly gone into debt for. He carried himself with a new, arrogant swagger. Before he left, he gave me a condescending look.

Half an hour later, the dorm room door slammed open.

Tyler stormed in, his face flushed with rage. He looked like a rabid dog, his eyes fixed on me with pure venom.