Filtered Lives - 1. Chapter 1

PART 1 - TIK, TOK–BOOM!

The pandemic changed everything in an instant. One day, Ry and I were living our usual lives—work, gym, grabbing drinks with friends—and the next, the world was locking down. It didn’t seem real at first. We’d heard the news about this virus, but it felt far away. A lot of things do, until they aren’t.

I still remember the day it became real for us. It started small. More people called in sick at work, and face masks started appearing on the bus. At first, I brushed it off. My parents had always worn masks during flu season, but it had never been a big deal.

Then, one afternoon, someone got sick at the office. We were sent home early, no explanation, just a sudden order to clear out. Most of my coworkers were thrilled to leave early, but I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that something wasn’t right.

As I rode the nearly empty bus home, I scrolled through the news on my phone. Airports around the world were closing. Flights canceled. Entire cities were locking down. My phone buzzed with a text from Ry.

"Dan… I’m home. My office sent us all back. Where are you?"

"I’m on my way," I texted back. "Someone got sick at work. They sent us home too. Do you know what’s going on?"

"No clue. I’m watching the news. It’s bad, babe. Be careful, okay?"

"Okay. I’ll be home soon."

When I got home, Ry was waiting for me at the door, mask on, with a bottle of sanitizer in hand. I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Really, Ry? What’s with the mask? And sanitizer? You’re not at the clinic,” I said, half-joking.

“Don’t laugh,” he shot back. “This thing is serious. Here, sanitize before you touch anything.”

I rolled my eyes, but Ry looked genuinely worried, so I humored him. After all, he worked in a dental clinic—he was trained to be cautious. I did as he asked, stripping down in the hallway, showering right away. As soon as I stepped out, I saw Ry had already put my clothes in the wash. The TV was on, blaring news about rising case numbers and mounting deaths. It wasn’t just a news story anymore. It was real.

The next day, both of our phones buzzed with news from our jobs. I was told to work from home indefinitely. For Ry, it was worse—his dental office was closing indefinitely, and there was no word on when it would reopen. Suddenly, our lives were flipped upside down.

Working from home was strange at first, but I adjusted. My company sent everything I needed—laptop, monitors, the whole setup. But Ry struggled. His days, once filled with clients and routines, were now empty. He tried keeping busy—cleaning, cooking, binge-watching Netflix—but nothing seemed to ease his growing anxiety. The bills piled up, and even though I was still working, one paycheck wasn’t enough. We started dipping into our savings, the fund we’d built for an overseas trip we’d been planning for years. But no one was traveling now. We were stuck.

One night, as we lay in bed, Ry turned to me, phone in hand, his eyes bright with excitement.

“Have you seen this JustInTime thing?” he asked, scrolling through videos. “It’s all over the place. There are a ton of gay couples on here, too. And some of them have, like, millions of followers.”

I shrugged. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it. Isn’t it just for dancing or something?”

“No, it’s so much more than that,” he said, showing me his screen. “Look at this couple. They’ve got sponsorships, babe. They’re making real money from this. One guy quit his job to do JustInTime full-time. I think we should try it.”

I laughed. “What? You want to become JustInTime stars now?”

“Why not? We’re stuck here anyway. I’m not working, and we’re burning through savings. What’s the harm in trying? You don’t even have to do anything. I’ll take care of it all. You just have to be your cute self,” he said, flashing me a grin.

I raised an eyebrow. “Compliment or insult?”

“Compliment, sweetie.”

I sighed, unsure. I wasn’t thrilled about the idea of being filmed all the time, but Ry was struggling, and I wanted to support him. “Fine, but don’t make me do any weird dances or anything. And this is your thing, not mine.”

“Deal.”

That’s how it all started. Ry threw himself into JustInTime like it was his lifeline. At first, it was fun. He started with cooking videos—filming us in the kitchen, experimenting with new recipes. He set up tripods, lighting, and started learning how to edit videos. It was harmless, even kind of cute. We’d laugh together while filming, and by the end of the first month, Ry had uploaded nearly 40 videos.

His follower count started to climb. Slowly at first—1,000, then 5,000, then 20,000. He was hooked.

The deeper Ry dove into JustInTime, the more obsessed he became. He spent hours every night studying trends, figuring out what content would get the most likes. He was glued to his phone, constantly refreshing, checking comments and analytics. I started to notice that he wasn’t present anymore, even when we were together. Every conversation circled back to JustInTime, every meal was another potential video, and every part of our lives felt like a performance.

After a few months, Ry had 175,000 followers. His first sponsorship came soon after—a local pizza place struggling during the pandemic. They didn’t have much money to offer, but Ry agreed to promote them in exchange for free pizza once a week for a year.

I rolled my eyes when he told me the deal, but I didn’t say anything. He was proud of it, and that was what mattered. But then he started talking about “growing his brand” and “expanding our audience,” and I could feel the weight of it all creeping in.

I’d come home from a grocery run, and he'd be excited, showing me the latest viral couple's trend.

“Look at this!” he said one day, holding his phone up. “This couple did the ‘Falling Prank.’ I think we should do it next!”

“What the hell is the falling prank?”

“You pretend to fall on the floor and film my reaction,” he said, beaming.

I groaned. “Ry, come on. That’s not funny.”

“Trust me, it’ll get views! You don’t have to do anything. Just fall and watch me freak out.”

Reluctantly, I agreed. We filmed it, and of course, Ry was right—the views poured in. People commented on how hilarious we were. But I could feel the shift. What started as fun was now constant. Every meal became content. Every moment of privacy was interrupted by the thought of “How can we turn this into a JustInTime?”

Five months in, Ry was thriving. His account had passed 250,000 followers, and I couldn’t believe how far he’d come. But the more successful he became, the more our lives revolved around content. Every dinner, every outing, every private moment was filmed and uploaded for strangers to consume. I started to wonder where Ry ended and the JustInTime star began.

Part 2 - The JustUs Proposal

Ry’s JustInTime success had become a monster, growing beyond what either of us imagined. Not content with just one platform, he launched a YouTube channel and a couple’s Instagram. Now he was juggling three platforms, each of which was taking up more and more of his time. I wasn’t thrilled, but he explained how it made sense—short clips for JustInTime, longer videos for YouTube, and snapshots for Instagram. I wanted to support him, so I gave him my blessing.

Before long, his YouTube had hundreds of thousands of subscribers, and Instagram quickly outpaced both platforms. Ry was on fire, and while it was great to see him so motivated and successful, I felt increasingly like a prop in his content empire. But I didn’t say much. His success was helping us stay afloat, and I guess, in some ways, I had encouraged him. I just hadn’t set the right boundaries.

On the surface, things were good. Ry’s energy had renewed our sex life in ways I never expected. Suddenly, he was an animal in bed—trying new things, exploring parts of our intimacy that had felt stale before. I wasn’t going to complain about that. The bedroom, which had once been predictable, now buzzed with excitement.

But I started to wonder. Was this newfound passion for us—or for the camera?

Ry took a few weekends to celebrate a media company’s interest in representing him. They wanted to handle all his content creation and distribution. It was a great opportunity—he’d still record everything, but the company would take care of editing, promotion, and even merch ideas. It sounded like a dream come true for him, and honestly, it meant he wouldn’t be glued to his phone 24/7 anymore. I thought we’d finally have more time together. More time for us.

One night, we were cooking a fancy meal, and as usual, everything was being recorded. It always felt like we were living inside an episode of Black Mirror, and frankly, it was exhausting. As we sat down for dessert—fancy lattes he made with a machine he was sponsoring on JustInTime—he dropped a bombshell.

“Dan,” Ry said, leaning across the table with that excited look in his eyes, “I’ve been talking to this company called JustUs.”

I raised an eyebrow, not recognizing the name. “What’s JustUs?”

For the next hour, Ry explained everything. JustUs was an adult video platform, where users paid to access more “exclusive” content. He was pitching the idea of us joining. Hosting live streams—teasers, as he called them—of intimate moments. But the real “juicy” stuff would be hidden behind a paywall.

I sat there, listening, stunned.

“Ry… you want to record us having sex? Are you serious?”

Ry looked taken aback by my tone but pressed on. “Dan, it’s not that bad. It’s all very tasteful. It’s just a few live streams, 3 or 4 times a week. The company would handle everything, all the editing and promotion. It’s not, like, hardcore or anything.”

“Ry, this is too much. JustInTime, Instagram, YouTube—that’s one thing. But you’re talking about broadcasting our sex life to the world. The bedroom is the one place where I feel like we’re just us. No cameras, no followers, no show. I’m not putting on a performance for strangers to see.”

Ry shifted in his seat, clearly trying to find the right words. “It’s not porn, Dan. It’s more about… intimacy. People love this kind of content. They want to connect with us on a deeper level.”

I shook my head, disgusted by the suggestion. “It is porn. Just because you slap a paywall on it doesn’t make it art. You’re asking me to expose our most private moments for money. I don’t want this. I do not consent to this.”

For a moment, Ry looked like he wanted to argue. But then he sighed, seeing the anger and hurt in my eyes. He knew when I’d made up my mind, there was no changing it. “Okay, okay… I get it,” he said, more defeated than I expected.

Part 3 - Walls Come Tumbling Down

With JustUs off the table, Ry doubled down on his other social media platforms. Everywhere we went, his phone was on, capturing every moment. He even installed cameras in the car, recording our drives, our conversations—everything.

Ry had signed with that media company, which at least meant he wasn’t spending hours editing and uploading content. But now, he had even more time to record. I swear the cameras were on 24/7, documenting every corner of our lives. I made him promise not to put cameras in the bedroom or the bathroom—those were the only spaces left where I could have some peace and quiet.

Even so, the constant intrusion was starting to wear on me, more than the pandemic ever had. Everyone else was adjusting to social distancing, working from home, and grocery runs on alternate days. But I was dealing with cameras all the time. I had to be careful about what I said, where I walked, what was visible in the background. I was terrified my work could be accidentally broadcast over the internet—one slip-up could cost me my job.

The tension had been building for months, and it was taking its toll. I could feel the resentment bubbling inside me, but I wasn’t sure how to confront him without starting a fight. That night, after dinner, I decided to finally speak up.

“Ry, we need to talk about this,” I said, pointing to the blinking red lights on the cameras. “Are they recording right now?”

“Yeah,” he said casually.

“Can you turn them off? I want to have a serious conversation. Please.”

He sighed, pulled out his phone, and tapped something on the screen. The red lights blinked off, one by one.

“Okay, what’s up?” he asked.

“Ry, I know you’re excited about all of this. And I’m happy for you, really, I am. But it’s getting to be too much. I have to watch everything I say and do. I can’t even walk around our apartment in what I want to wear. I’m scared to invite friends over—not just because of COVID, but because they’ll end up on one of your videos.”

Ry looked at me, concerned but not fully grasping the weight of what I was saying. “Dan, I know it’s a lot, but this is for us. We’re making so much money from sponsorships. The media company is pushing us to the next level. Next week, we’ve even got a call about a limited-run web show. This could set us up for life.”

“We have a call, or you have a call?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

He chuckled nervously. “You know what I mean.”

I shook my head, my frustration boiling over. “Ry, what’s the point of being set up for life if there’s no life? We barely have time together without a camera in our face.”

Ry leaned back, trying to deflect with charm. “But babe, I’ve got so much more free time now. We’re doing more together, and you can’t tell me the bedroom hasn’t been spicier lately…”

He flashed me a grin, pulling the sex card as usual. I couldn’t help but smile a little. He knew me too well.

“Ahhh, there it is,” he teased, catching the hint of a smile.

“Ry… I don’t know,” I said, my tone softening. “Yeah, you’re spending more time with me, but it feels like you’re with your cameras more. Remember when we used to just relax on the sofa and watch Netflix? I miss that. Now, the only place I can escape is the bedroom or the shower. Our home feels like a prison sometimes. The other day, I tried to sit on the patio, and guess what? There was a camera there, too.”

Ry’s face fell. “Babe, I’m sorry. I forgot to tell you about that. The media company wanted me to set up a couple of extra angles on the patio for some outdoor shots. But if it’s too much, I’ll take them down. I’ll tell them tonight.”

“Really? You’ll take them down?” I asked, surprised by his willingness to compromise.

“Of course, Dan. I’ll take them down tonight and let the media company know tomorrow. I’ve got you,” he said with a reassuring smile.

For the first time in a long while, I felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe he was finally starting to understand just how overwhelming it had all become. Maybe we could find some balance again.

Part 4 - The Divide

The cracks in our relationship had been forming for a while, but they were easier to ignore when things were good. Ry was thriving. His JustInTime account was booming, with hundreds of thousands of followers watching our every move. I was proud of him, really. He was happy, engaged, and throwing himself into his work as an “influencer,” a title he used proudly now. But the constant cameras in our lives? That was something I struggled with. Every moment—every meal, every joke, even private conversations—seemed to be packaged for content.

And yet, in the midst of it all, our relationship was doing well, at least on the surface. The sex was incredible—more adventurous than it had ever been. Ry had this newfound energy in bed, and while I wasn’t complaining, a part of me wondered what had changed. What had gotten into him?

One night, after another round of filming, I finally brought it up.

“Ry, do we have to record everything? I miss when it was just us, you know?”

He laughed it off, as always. “Babe, we’re doing this for us. Look at the money we’re bringing in. We’ll be able to travel the world after this pandemic is over. Isn’t that worth it?”

I didn’t have a good argument against that. The money was rolling in, and seeing our bank account grow made it easier to let things slide. Still, a nagging feeling lingered.

Ry had gone out earlier that day to pick up a package from an Amazon locker and planned to go for a run afterward. I was looking forward to some quiet time—time without a camera in my face. I decided to straighten up the bedroom, changing the sheets and dusting the furniture. That’s when I saw it: a small, sleek camera mounted high on the wall.

It wasn’t something I’d noticed before. And it wasn’t one of the tripods or cameras we used for JustInTime. This was discreet. Hidden. The red light was still blinking, meaning it was actively recording.

Curious, I grabbed a step stool, pulled it off the wall, and examined it. High-end. Expensive. And there was a microSD card inside. My stomach dropped. I didn’t remember Ry telling me about buying any new equipment. Why was there a camera in the bedroom?

I decided the check the bathroom and found two in there.

I took them all down, and took the SD cards to my laptop and plugged it in, the screen coming to life with dozens of video files. As I clicked on the first one, my heart sank.

There were videos—hundreds of them—of Ry and me. Having sex. Intimate moments I thought were private. Every single encounter we’d had over the past few months was captured on film without my knowledge. I sat back in shock, anger bubbling up inside me.

I plugged the SD card from the bathroom into the computer. Hundreds of clips. Of me in the shower, on the toilet. Of us in the shower.

Why would he do this? What else was he hiding?

I sat there for what felt like hours, stewing in confusion and hurt. When Ry got home, I didn’t give him a chance to unwind. I needed answers.

As soon as he stepped into the living room, I pointed to the cameras on the coffee table. “Ryan, what is this?”

He looked at it, then at me, clearly caught off guard. “Oh, uh… where did you find that?”

I held up the microSD cards between my fingers. “I found it in our bedroom. And in the bathroom. Want to explain why you’ve been recording us?”

His face paled. “Dan, come on. Were you going through my stuff?”

“Your stuff?” I spat back, the anger rising in my chest. “We’ve been together for years, Ryan. Your stuff? Since when do we keep secrets? When did things become mine or yours!” It was difficult to contain my anger, but I had to otherwise this would all fall on me. I had to have a rational conversation with Ryan.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, it’s not what you think.”

“Then tell me what it is.”

For the next fifteen minutes, Ryan explained how he’d started an account on a platform called JustUs, a site where people post more explicit content for paying subscribers. I could barely process what he was saying. He’d been posting us—our most intimate moments—for strangers to watch.

“How long has this been going on?” I demanded, my voice shaking. “When we last talked about this, I told you explicitly that I was not interested and you agreed. Did you lie to me?”

“A few months,” he admitted, barely able to meet my eyes. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Didn’t want me to worry? Are you serious? You’re recording us having sex and posting it online without telling me, and you think that’s not something I’d worry about? You recorded me, us in the bathroom and thought I’d be OK with that?” I was furious. My heart was pounding, my chest tight with betrayal.

“You mentioned live streaming. Are you doing that as well? How are you doing that? Where are you doing that?” I asked, my heart still pounding.

He said quickly. “I rent a separate place. I record stuff there, its all above board. There is nobody else with me. They are just teasers. If people that hit the channel like what they see, they subscribe for more explicit stuff, us having sex, or stuff that goes on in the bathroom.”

“Teasers? Teasers?! Bedroom? Bathroom?” I could barely believe what I was hearing. “Ryan, what the hell is going on? What else haven’t you told me? Are you seeing someone else?”

“No, no, it’s not like that,” he said, waving his hands defensively. “I swear, it’s just me. I do live streams a couple times a week. But people love it, Dan. I’ve made so much money from this.”

I sat down, trying to process everything. “You did this behind my back. You made a fool of me. You filmed us without my consent. I never gave you consent.”

Ry shrugged, his expression alarmingly nonchalant. “I did it for us.”

“For us?” I could feel my face heating up with anger. “You crossed a line, Ryan. JustInTime was one thing. This… this is something else entirely. When we talked about this, I never agreed. Just because I’m out doesn’t mean I want the entire world to see me in intimate positions or in the fucking bathroom. What made you think this was OK?”

“Come on, babe. It’s not that big of a deal. It’s just content. People pay for it. We’ve made three times what we had saved for vacation! Don’t you see? We could have anything we want.”

“I don’t want this,” I said, my voice low, trembling. “I don’t want a relationship where I can’t trust my own boyfriend. I don’t want anything. I want you. I want us. Ry, what happened to us?”

He blinked, as if the weight of my words had finally hit him. But instead of an apology, instead of remorse, all he could say was, “We’re doing it for us.”

But I knew then that this wasn’t for us. It was for him. All of it.

And it was breaking us apart.

“Where do we go from here, Ry? What’s next for us?” I asked, my voice heavy with exhaustion.

“I don’t know,” Ryan replied, his gaze locked on the floor. “I can’t just give all this up. This is my job now.”

I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “And I need you, Ry. I need to be able to trust you. Can I trust you?”

The silence that followed was suffocating. He didn’t answer. He didn’t even try.

“I can’t do this anymore, Ry,” I said, feeling the weight of my words sink in. “I’m going to my parents’ place for a few days. You need to think about this. Really think. Either it’s all this—this constant need for validation from strangers—or it’s me. Temper down what you’re doing. Spend time with me. But you need to decide what’s more important. Because this success won’t mean anything if it tears us apart.”

I turned and headed into the bedroom, my eyes scanning the walls for any cameras. Paranoia had become second nature. I grabbed a bag and threw in some clothes. I didn’t pack much—it didn’t feel like I was leaving for good, not yet—but I had no idea what would happen next.

As I called my parents, letting them know I was coming over for a few days, I walked back into the living room. There he was, on the sofa, still glued to his phone.

“Ry, I’ll be back in a few days. You need to really think about this.” I waited for a response, but he barely acknowledged me, too absorbed in whatever was happening on his screen. Did he even hear what I said?

I grabbed my laptop, shoved it into my bag, and left without another word. The familiar sound of the apartment door clicking shut behind me felt heavier than usual. In the parkade, as I started my car, I could feel the weight of everything—months of frustration, disappointment, and love slipping through my fingers.

At my parents’ place, I finally got a chance to breathe. I hadn’t realized how suffocating our apartment had become, how much it felt like living under a microscope. My parents asked me what was going on, but I wasn’t ready to tell them everything. I lied, saying I was having power and internet issues at the apartment. They didn’t push, though I could see the concern in their eyes.

That night, after lying in bed for hours, I couldn’t sleep. I picked up my phone and opened JustInTime. I don’t even know why—maybe I was looking for a sign that Ry had heard me, that he was taking this seriously. But what I saw made my heart drop.

In the few hours since I’d left, Ry had posted nearly a dozen videos. Each one documented our conversation, our argument, every moment I thought was private. It was all out there, for everyone to see. My hurt, my frustration, my pleading—it was nothing more than content to him. Another moment captured for social media.

I stared at the screen, my chest tightening with anger, betrayal, and sadness. He hadn’t heard a word I’d said. To him, it was all just another story to tell his followers.

I knew then what I had to do.

Part 5 - This is the End

I couldn’t sleep all night. Every time I closed my eyes, all I could think about was Ry. I missed him terribly. This was the first time I’d slept without him in years, and the empty space next to me felt like a void. But I knew I couldn’t go back. The pandemic was supposed to bring us closer, give us time together, but instead, it had driven a wedge between us. The cameras, the constant recording—it wasn’t the life I wanted.

That evening, I sat down with my parents and told them everything. I explained Ry’s rise on JustInTime, YouTube, and Instagram. I even told them about the JustUs account, which was the hardest part to confess. The look of shock on their faces said it all, but I needed to be honest with them about where things had gone.

“Daniel, I’m so sorry,” my mom said softly. “Are you sure you can’t work this out with Ryan?”

I shook my head and pulled out my phone, showing them the last few videos Ryan had posted. I could see the sadness in their eyes as they watched, the realization sinking in that this wasn’t just a social media obsession—it was consuming our lives.

“Yeah, Mom. I’m sure,” I said, feeling the weight of my decision settle over me. “I’ve been enabling him. It’s my fault as much as it is his. I should’ve set boundaries right from the start. I can’t lay it all on him, but I’m exhausted. I can’t do this anymore.”

“You’re doing what’s best for you,” my dad said quietly. “And you’re always welcome to stay here as long as you need.”

“Thanks, Dad. Thanks, Mom,” I replied, trying to hold back the tears. “I’m going to try and get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be hard.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” my dad asked, his voice full of concern.

“No,” I said, forcing a smile. “I have to do this myself.”

Once in bed, I stared at the ceiling, feeling the weight of everything. I reached for my phone, hesitated for a moment, and then one by one, deleted every social media app. JustInTime. YouTube. Instagram. Gone. Each tap felt like shedding a layer of the life that had consumed me. It was freeing, but bittersweet.

I knew tomorrow would be the end of something that had once been so beautiful. And as much as it broke my heart, I was ready to let it go—for my own mental health. For my own sake.