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I upload one filtered photograph because I want to know how the platform would style my face. It answers with a name, Camille, then begins correcting far more than my wardrobe. My contacts fill with friends I do not remember meeting. Photographs appear from birthdays I never attended, all showing the same brown-haired woman smiling in the blue dress now fitted around my body. A message asks whether Camille is still coming tonight. Another reminds me that she promised to wear blue. I stand beside the matching garment hanging on my door and wait for panic, but the memories arriving behind my eyes feel warmer than the life they are replacing.

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