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It was my email. And the password—the one I’d changed only yesterday—was visible in plain text.

The Notepad window flickered to life, a jagged waterfall of emails and passwords. It was a rhythmic, ugly poetry of personal data: sunnysky72@gmail.com : P@ssword123 j.miller.arch@outlook.com : BlueDog99! curious_cat_88@yahoo.com : 12081988 Download x100 Accounts txt

I didn't close the file. I pulled the power cord from the wall. But as the screen faded to black, I could still see the glowing white text of my own life, waiting to be opened by the next person who clicked the link. It was my email

The "Download" wasn't a gift. It was a mirror. I looked at the webcam at the top of my monitor. The tiny green "on" light wasn't lit, but in the dark reflection of the glass, I saw a shape standing in the corner of my room that hadn't been there a moment ago. It was a rhythmic, ugly poetry of personal

My cursor hovered over the first one. I imagined SunnySky72. Maybe she was a teacher. Maybe that password was the same one she used for her bank, her medical portal, the cloud storage where she kept photos of her late father. With one "Log In" click, I could be her. I could see her messages, read her drafts, and erase her digital existence.