Rafe™
You want to know what he was like.
The public knows Rafe™: a perfectly crafted projection of soft, accessible pain. A young man perpetually shot in the golden hour, tears glistening under the ring light's glow, his sponsored fairy lights framing his face for the mental health awareness thread. They know the viral nano-threads, the meticulously designed pastel graphiks of his sorrow, the voice auto-tuned to crack just enough to generate 87,000 algorithmic 'hearts.' They think they own his grief.
But I was the keeper of the original.
The Rafe I remember was nine and wore a cheap, off-brand hoodie for a cape, narrating our walk to the local cafe as if we were off-grid explorers building a non-monetised myth. With basic video filters, he filmed short films of himself, wearing a fox mask and locating time machines in dumpsters. He didn’t want to be seen. He wanted to write. Something real. Something that wouldn’t disappear when the platform sold and the algorithm reset.
Before Rafe became Rafe™, he wasn't looking for fame; he was looking for a megaphone. He’d lived through his own mental health struggles in isolation, feeling completely invisible and unmoored. The original impetus for sharing his stories; the pain, the quiet struggles, the small moments of genuine connection. They were a sincere, almost urgent desire to reach others like him. He saw the social platforms not as a stage, but as a vast, interconnected support group, a way to use his talent for vulnerability and storytelling to build a bridge across the immense loneliness he knew so well. He believed that if he spoke his truth loudly enough, someone else wouldn't feel so alone in their dark corner.
He genuinely wanted to help, to offer the solace he’d never received, but the moment the metrics deemed his pain relatable enough, the engine of the influencer machine roared to life. His authentic voice; the one that simply wanted to say "I'm still here" was quickly co-opted, filtered, and optimised until the raw, messy truth became the clean, packaged product they called Rafe™. The mission to help became a brand to sell.
The last six months, he avoided going to Rafe™’s meticulously minimalist influencer apartment. He came to my old, analog apartment; the one with spotty Wi-Fi, stacked with real books, and smelling like old coffee and paper dust. It was a sanctuary of quiet, a space where he could slam his ARphone face-down on the wooden table like a declaration of war.
He arrived wearing a dark mask and deep-tinted smart glasses indoors, a prisoner playing himself.
“They need a new story arc about ‘Healing Through Consumption,’” he muttered, stirring his oat latte. “I tried to pitch the new piece. The one about the kid and the smart-glass house.”
“The one who phases out of focus to be noticed?” I asked.
“The one who lives in a house made of high-res, constant-feed glass,” he corrected, his voice tight. “The last intact corner is where he retreats, whispering, “’’I’m still here,’ as he streams his entire life.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose where the smart glasses rested. “It was too quiet for the feed. They want Rafe™ to look fragile, not irreversibly broken. The metrics demand a clean sadness.”
He had spent so long building the public echo that he no longer knew where the authentic voice went.
It was raining the day Rafe asked to go to the old public library. Not the digitised archive, not the branded “Mindful Reading Lounge” his team had curated for content shoots. The real one. The one with flickering fluorescent lights and a smell like damp paper and forgotten stories.
He wore a hoodie; not merch, just fabric. Kept his smart glasses in his pocket. We walked past the biometric check-in and into the stacks. He ran his fingers along the spines like he was tracing a pulse.
“They don’t stream here,” he whispered. “No one’s watching.”
We sat in the children’s section, surrounded by faded murals of foxes and astronauts. He pulled out a notebook, actual paper, and began sketching a scene.
“The fox finds a library that’s off-grid,” he murmured. “Each book is a portal. But he’s scared to open them because he’s forgotten how to read without metrics.”
I watched him write. No filters. No captions. Just graphite and silence.
“You think anyone will read this?” he asked.
“I will,” I said.
He smiled, the kind that didn’t trend.
One night, he arrived at 3 a.m. His eyes were red, genuinely raw, not enhanced with a 'Tearful Realness' filter. He threw a stack of his own merch (an arbook called Find Your Light in the Dark Mode!) onto my floor.
“I cry on camera and they call it brave and profitable,” he whispered, his voice shaking with non-performative stress. “I cry off camera, here, with you, and my team sends me cognitive instability warnings.”
He paced my small living room, the one space he used to relax in, desperately looking for a spot the camera couldn't reach, for the nearest dark corner.
“They want my trauma-data,” he spat. “They don’t want me. I just want to write. A fox. A time jump. Something that lasts longer than a branded nano-caption.”
I stood near him. “You’re allowed to desync. You’re allowed to cancel the stream.”
He didn't respond, standing paralysed, unable to choose between the glass house and the real world. The next morning, he was gone, but he'd left a note tucked into my worn-out physical book: "Thanks for the quiet signal."
One evening, he arrived with a cracked smart mirror under his arm. The kind influencers used to rehearse vulnerability. Its surface was spiderwebbed with fractures, distorting his reflection into a kaleidoscope of selves.
“I smashed it,” he said simply. “They said it was a ‘brand violation.’”
He placed it on my floor like an offering. We sat beside it, watching our broken reflections shimmer in the low light.
“I used to look into this and practice crying,” he admitted. “They said the tears needed symmetry.”
I didn’t speak. I just handed him a cup of tea; real leaves, not mood-coded sachets.
He stared into the mirror. “I don’t know which version of me they love.”
“They don’t love,” I said. “They consume.”
He nodded, then reached into his bag and pulled out a fox mask. The same one from our childhood films. He placed it gently on the mirror’s surface.
“Let’s film something,” he said. “Just for us.”
The night before his final broadcast, he handed me a data chip. It was small, untagged, and unlinked to any cloud.
“This was supposed to be the next thread,” he said. “But I never posted it.”
I plugged it into my analog reader. The screen flickered to life, revealing a series of short clips; raw, unedited. Rafe laughing. Rafe crying. Rafe reading a bedtime story to no one. Rafe whispering, “I’m still here.”
Each clip ended with a fox drawing, hand-sketched, slowly fading into static.
“They said it was too quiet,” he said. “Too real.”
I looked at him. “It’s beautiful.”
He shrugged. “It’s not profitable.”
We sat in silence, watching the final clip loop. Just him, staring into the camera, no tears, no script. Just breath.
“I wanted someone to see me,” he said.
“I do,” I replied.
He smiled, and for a moment, the metrics didn’t matter.
Two days later, he was due for a massive, cross-platform campaign launch. He sat on a minimal white cube, surrounded by those inescapable fairy lights. His opening lines were the standard script of his profitable vulnerability. He looked directly into the camera, and he smiled. It was the smile of a person making a choice.
“This is the last piece of content I’m creating for you,” he said.
He abruptly killed the feed, and a few minutes later, my phone pinged. I missed the incoming message. The last thing he ever texted me was a single word: Done.
My ARphone lay on my table, silent for a full day, a dead brick finally freed from the stream of mandatory notifications and digital demands. It wasn't the device itself, but the old copper landline - a securely routed connection I kept only for true, official emergencies - that finally broke the silence. The voice on the other end was a clipped, automated dispatch: a Central Precinct Analyst. They informed me, with a practiced, detached script, that Rafe had been found in his minimalist smart-apartment; the official determination was logged as a 'Voluntary System Disconnect', their clinical term for suicide.
The sudden, brutal confirmation of the dread I’d felt since reading his final word, Done, hit with the force of a neuro-shock. He hadn't just logged off the feed; he had finally absolutely silenced his entire digital footprint. I was told to report to the Regional Data Archive immediately to provide necessary clearances and, pointedly, to address the 'Catastrophic Audience Impact Event' his abrupt termination had already triggered across every platform. Rafe, the brother, had sought ultimate quiet, but Rafe™, the brand, had ensured his ending would be the loudest, most profitable performance of all
The funeral was a media spectacle. There were professional streaming crews. There were floral arrangements shaped like ring lights. His media group was already selling grief packaged in pastel infographics before his body was even taken away. The top trending hashtag - a quote from his last publication - had generated 87,000 algorithmic hearts.
I went to his empty space and didn't touch the tech. I sat on the floor and found his old, un-synced paper notebooks. They were filled not with brand strategies, but with stories about foxes and time travel, and a final, penciled ending for the boy in the smart-glass house. In this version, the boy finally whispers loud enough for the glass to shatter and he walks out, alone.
I closed the notebooks, and the sudden, physical absence of the digital noise was immense.
You want to know what he was like? He was a storyteller who was monetised and archived until he was gone. He wanted to be a writer. Not a brand.
I turn off the old phone, letting the darkness reclaim the screen. I sit here in my quiet, off-grid apartment, surrounded by physical books that won’t disappear when the platform shifts.
The silence was louder than all the hearts combined.
Before Rafe became Rafe™, he wasn't looking for fame; he was looking for a megaphone. He’d lived through his own mental health struggles in isolation, feeling completely invisible and unmoored. The original impetus for sharing his stories - the pain, the quiet struggles, the small moments of genuine connection - was a sincere, almost urgent desire to reach others like him. He saw the burgeoning social platforms not as a stage, but as a vast, interconnected support group, a way to use his talent for vulnerability and storytelling to build a bridge across the immense loneliness he knew so well. He believed that if he spoke his truth loudly enough, someone else wouldn't feel so alone in their dark corner.
He genuinely wanted to help, to offer the solace he’d never received, but the moment his pain was deemed relatable enough by the metrics, the engine of the influencer machine roared to life. His authentic voice - the one that simply wanted to say "I'm still here" - was quickly co-opted, filtered, and optimized until the raw, messy truth became the clean, packaged product they called Rafe™. The mission to help became a brand to sell.
@EchoingEmpathy_Official
> Heartbroken doesn't even begin to cover it. Rafe showed us all how to be vulnerable, how to heal. His light was too bright for this world. My thoughts are with his closest connections. #RafeForever #LightInTheDark #MentalHealthMatters
> (Attached: A highly filtered selfie of the user with a single glistening tear, looking thoughtfully into the distance. A faint holographic Rafe brand logo is subtly projected in the background.)
@DataStreamDreamer
> I knew Rafe before the fame. Before the algorithms demanded perfection. He was a storyteller. A real one. This isn't just a content loss; it's a human one. My heart hurts for the quiet he never found. #RememberRafe #AuthenticityOverAlgorithms #TooSoon
> (Attached: A raw, unedited, slightly blurry image of Rafe laughing genuinely, likely from years ago, without the signature fairy lights.)
@WellnessBot_743
> Data analysis indicates heightened emotional distress surrounding the 'Rafe Incident'. Please utilise embedded self-care protocols. Your emotional wellness is a priority. Link to cognitive-reframing exercises: [secure.wellness.link/reframing] #PrioritizeYourWellbeing #AlgorithmicCare #EmotionalStability
> (Attached: A generic, soothing abstract graphic with soft gradients.)
@CryptoCritic_X
> Another asset liquidated by the system. Don't mourn Rafe. Mourn what they made him. What's the ROI of a forced 'Voluntary System Disconnect' when you're worth billions in engagement? Just asking questions. #RafeTruth #InfluencerIndustrialComplex #DontBuyTheNarrative
> (Attached: A heavily pixelated image of a corporate logo overlaid with glitch art.)
@FandomCore_Rafe
> No no no I can't believe this. My whole feed is breaking. Rafe saved me so many times. Who will teach us how to feel now? My heart is just... empty. I'm going to re-stream his 'Glass House' reflection for the next 24 hours. Join me. #RafeLiveForever #MyHero #GriefStream
> (Attached: A collage of Rafe's most famous stylised moments, overlaid with glittering effects and crying emojis.)
@ChronicleNews_Official
> Breaking: Influencer Rafe confirmed deceased via 'Voluntary System Disconnect'. Public sentiment analysis indicates unprecedented emotional impact. Management Group issues statement: "Deeply saddened. Rafe's legacy of empathy will endure." More at [chronicle.news/rafe_legacy] #NewsAlert #RafeLegacy #DigitalImpact
> (Attached: A professional, sombre headshot of Rafe™ from his official press kit.)
@TheNextWaveTalent
> The industry has lost a titan. Rafe inspired millions. As we grieve, let us also remember the immense power of connection. Are you ready to share your story and build a community that truly understands? DM us. #NewVoices #ContentCreator #LegacyBuilding
> (Attached: A sleek, modern graphic with their agency logo, implying a path forward amidst the tragedy.)
>
@Glimmer_of_Hope
> Just sending all my positive light-waves into the matrix for Rafe's memory. It hurts to think about how much pressure he was under. Be kind to yourselves, everyone. We needed him, but he needed quiet. 🙏✨
@Spiritual_Sync
> We are transmitting deep peace protocols for Rafe and his inner circle. May his consciousness archive find total stillness. Remember to process your grief mindfully. Access our guided grief-sync meditation via link in bio. #PeaceProtocol #SendingLight
@LifeIsContent
> What a loss to the community! We mourn, but we must also optimise our emotional response. Rafe's message lives on if you choose to engage with purpose. Sending strength to everyone managing their Grief Metrics today. 💔
@TheRealVoice_UK
> Another young life tragically wasted, but let's be honest: this isn't about 'mental wellness,' it's about the Digital Class losing a revenue stream. The political elite and Big Tech pushed this vacuous, isolated lifestyle. Don't fall for the choreographed tears. When will we demand a return to reality? #RealProblems #DigitalDecay #EndTheStream (Attached: A low-resolution, slightly blurry image of an old, traditional British pub sign with the Union Jack faintly visible in the background.)
@AnonymousViewer12
> My stream is broken. Thoughts and virtual comfort to the family. He was a beacon.
@TheNextWaveTalent
> Our hearts are heavy. We join the millions who are uplifting his memory across the feeds. Take this moment to reflect on your own journey. Rafe would want us to keep creating. Sending deep, algorithmic sympathy.
@UK_PrimeMinister_Official
> The news of Rafe’s passing is a profound shock to the nation. His work in the digital space provided essential engagement on matters of national mental wellness. The government extends its deepest condolences to his family and team. We remain committed to supporting all digital citizens experiencing a 'Voluntary System Disconnect'. The Department of Digital Strategy will issue a formal statement shortly. #NationalWellness #DigitalCitizenship #CommitmentToCare (Attached: A high-resolution image of the official UK crest, framed by a soft, respectful filter.)
@ChronicleNews_Official
> Update: The Rafe 'Voluntary System Disconnect' event has generated 4.1 billion sympathy posts and triggered a Level 4 Global Emotional Cascade. Corporations advised to adjust ad targeting accordingly. #SympathySurge #DigitalGrief
