Life is fascinating, not because of what happens, but because of how people choose to live through it. That’s what interests me. I have a hypothesis: People don’t love you; they love the version of you that benefits them. And like any serious scientist, I knew a theory without evidence is just an opinion. So I conducted my own research. For three weeks, I observed, I tested, and I recorded. My conclusion? The hypothesis holds weight.
Emotions, I discovered, are fickle things; easily sparked, easily extinguished, like two sides of a coin that can be flipped at will. Affection shifts. Loyalty bends. What remains constant is the advantage.
I didn’t begin this experiment out of loneliness—that would make me sentimental. It started out of curiosity. People speak of authenticity as though it’s something buried deep inside you, waiting to be excavated like a fossil. Teachers encourage it. Friends admire it. “Just be yourself,” they insist, as if the self were fixed and unchanging—solid, dependable, untouched by
circumstance.
But what if the “self” people claim to love is simply the version of you that serves them best? I decided to test it.
The first trial: Confidence. When you are confident there is an aura you radiate that makes people go, “hey, this person’s got it going on.” I straightened my posture. Held eye contact half a second longer than usual. Spoke first in conversations. Laughed like I expected people to listen. The response was immediate. People leaned in. Teachers called on me more often. Classmates described me as “natural.” One of them said, “You’ve always been so sure of yourself.” I took note of the outcome: confidence increases perceived authenticity.
Interesting.
The second trial: Softness. When people see you as an approachable and empathetic person, they may also see this as you being their personal therapist especially when you didn’t give the go ahead. I lowered my voice. Asked more questions than I answered. Tilted my head when people spoke. I practiced looking thoughtful. The reaction shifted, but the approval remained. “You’re such a good listener.” “You’re really genuine.” Genuine? No, I’m just good at acting. The word felt ironic, but I didn’t laugh. I simply kept observing. Conclusion: warmth increases trust.
The fascinating part was not that it worked. It was that no one noticed the switch. No one asked why I was different; or perhaps they didn’t think I was. Maybe they were seeing what they wanted to see, keeping the image of me they needed and ignoring the rest. Classic.
I decided to expand my experiment, go big or go home right? I began dividing each environment I found myself in into control groups. I would be bold and full of opinions in one group and shy and uncertain in another. No one fact checked. No one wondered. But I mean why would they right? Because at that moment I was who they wanted me to be, to them it was the norm, nothing but the norm.
I had proven something significant and worth the listen: authenticity is not about truth. It’s about being logical within the given instance. As long as each version of me made sense in its immediate setting, it was accepted as the real me, the “authentic” me.
The experiment continued on for a few more weeks, trying different emotions and approaches. I controlled everything, well I thought I did until something unexpected happened; it wasn’t dramatic. There was no confrontation, no accusation. It was a small comment. “You’re different with me,” they said. Not suspicious. Not angry. Just observant, maybe even grateful. I tilted my head, keeping the softness act going, and asked, “Different how?” They shrugged. “I don’t know. Just… more real.”
Real. That word again.
I replayed our interactions later, analyzing each variable. Had I mirrored too closely? Had I switched personas accidentally?
I couldn’t note exactly where the anomalies were. For the first time, I couldn’t categorize which version of myself they were responding to. Worse, I wasn’t entirely sure which version I had been using. That unsettled me.
Up until that moment, I had always felt separate from the personas — like a scientist observing through glass. The roles were the variables. Adjustable. Replaceable. But lately, the transitions have become smoother, a bit too smooth for something that isn’t supposed to be real. I began to speak before I had decided which version of me would respond. That shouldn’t be happening. I decided to run one last trial.
The final trial: Absence. A delayed realisation of value, only when you’re barely there do people realise how long you had been there for them. So I did just that. No more concern, boldness or opinions. When someone laughed, I didn’t adjust my volume to match theirs.
When conversations shifted toward topics I’d previously claimed to love, I neither leaned in nor withdrew. I answered questions plainly with “I don’t know” or “I haven’t thought about it”. A few people seemed confused, asking if I was tired, while another filled the space with extra enthusiasm, as if trying to revive something. Two groups responded oppositely. One drifted towards louder personalities; the other lingered, watching me carefully.
When someone commented that I seemed quiet, that was my opening. I could have confessed everything at that moment: the trials, the adjustments, and the hypothesis that none of this was real. Instead, I hesitated, unsure what the confession would mean. Was “the fragile soul seeking redemption” just another persona? If I revealed the experiment, would that be authentic or the
most elaborate performance yet?
“I don’t know,” I said finally, and for once, that answer was true. My experiment had a flaw: the more I adjusted myself, the harder it became to find my original baseline. Identity turned into an exchange between crafted stimulus and response. When I stopped measuring reactions and let conversations unfold naturally, life felt slower but less hollow. I’m no longer sure if I’m the one behind the glass.
