The appetite app

The ad finds you at 1:47 a.m., the way these things always do. FEEDSIM — 'The most realistic feeding experience ever created. Zero judgment. One hundred percent you.' The screenshot shows a candlelit dinner table rendered in unsettling detail, a plate of pasta glistening like it was photographed, not drawn. You've been browsing the same three forums for an hour, the ones you always clear from your history, and the algorithm knows. You've browsed them for years now, ever since you were in college and found out about this particular niche. Back then, you gained 15 pounds after its discovery, but you soon got yourself under control again and kept things virtual. Safe. You never lost these pounds, though, even when you picked up running for a short time at 22. And since you had started working from home in your new role, a few more pounds had joined your frame.

You tell yourself you'll just look. The download bar fills faster than it should and you consent to its 18+ content. Duh. That's why you want to play it. The app doesn't ask for any more permissions so much as it assumes them, and the first tutorial level loads before you've finished reading the welcome screen: a soft-lit kitchen, a character you named after yourself, a warm voice asking if you'd like a second helping. Oh yes, you definitely do. In game, of course. You play three levels without meaning to. It's better than the cheap browser games you've tried over the years — it watches how you play, adapts, rewards patience and generosity. When you finally look up, it's 3:20 a.m. and a notification is waiting: 'FIRST NIGHT BONUS UNLOCKED. Enjoy your reward.'

You don't remember accepting a reward. But there it is in your inventory: a small golden icon labeled REALISM+, no description. Your phone screen dims on its own, politely, like a waiter extinguishing a candle. Beyond time to go to bed, you realize, sighing deeply at the clock. You're definitely not hitting your sleep schedule tonight. Your apartment is dark, and you realize — with a small, familiar pang — that you're hungry. You weren't, an hour ago.