The Day Marvin Decided to Become an Influencer
Part 6
The morning after the live Q&A, Marvin felt as if he had had one of those intense dreams you remember surprisingly clearly.
He sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea in front of him, scrolling through the messages that had come in after the stream.
“Thank you for being honest.”
“I haven’t felt this seen in a stream for a long time.”
“Please don’t forget to take breaks offline too. We don’t want a burnout livestream.”
Among all the emojis, hearts and half-ironic comments, one message stood out to him:
“I laughed out loud for the first time in ages today – and at the same time almost cried because I saw myself in so much of it. Thank you.”
Marvin stared at that sentence as if it were a tiny sticky note someone had put on his forehead: “This means more to people than you think.”
“Careful,” he muttered. “Or I’ll start to feel responsible.”
The AI chimed in, punctually as always:
“Note: your viewer count has increased since the live format. Recommendation: schedule recurring live sessions.”
“Of course,” Marvin replied dryly. “Best with agenda, PowerPoint and dress code.”
He got up, took his cup into the living room and flopped onto the sofa. He put his phone next to him face-down.
“I need a day offline,” he said out loud.
His AI app flashed briefly as if it had heard him and suggested:
“Digital detox: 24 hours without social media. Alternative: 2 hours without social media, with tea.”
“Baby steps,” said Marvin. “We’ll take the two hours.”
He activated focus mode on his phone, took a deep breath and realized that he now… had nothing to do. At least nothing that would be liked, rated or commented on.
After about seven minutes of complete silence, during which he stared at the carpet, he got up again.
“Okay, detox is intense,” he said. “That was a lot.”
Instead of unlocking his phone, he grabbed an old notebook that was lying somewhere between books and cables. On the cover, in crooked handwriting, it said: “One day I’ll do something ‘real’.”
He opened it. On the first page there was a list:
- “Finish my studies” (crossed out three times)
- “Get an office job (safe)” (a question mark next to “safe”)
- “Something creative” (underlined, circled, then crossed out)
Below that he had written months ago, in smaller letters:
“Maybe I’m just the kind of person who makes others feel like they’re not the only ones who don’t have it together.”
Marvin read the sentence twice. No camera. No AI comment. Just him and his slightly messy handwriting.
“Wow,” he said quietly. “Past-me had a moment.”
He sat down, grabbed a pen and added:
“Update: Looks like past-me was right for once.”
His phone vibrated. Focus mode should have blocked it, but apparently some stubborn algorithm had decided that “ideas for new formats” were important right now.
He unlocked the phone anyway – half annoyed, half curious.
The AI had created a list:
- “Format: Things you do offline (and only talk about later, instead of filming them).”
- “Format: Questions you ask your community instead of explaining everything.”
- “Format: ‘What I didn’t get done today’ – normalizes imperfect days.”
Marvin grinned.
“All right,” he said. “Maybe I don’t have to show the functioning version of myself all the time. Maybe it’s enough to sort through my unfinished versions.”
In the afternoon, he actually went outside – without a camera. He walked through the city, saw people with shopping bags, others with headphones, some with that tired expression that felt strangely familiar.
In a small café he sat down by the window, without scanning the interior for how ‘instagrammable’ it was. He ordered tea with zero irony and heard someone in the background say:
“I’ve seen these videos from this guy who nearly drops everything all the time, but he’s so honest somehow.”
His heart skipped a beat. He didn’t turn around, pretended not to notice and stared intently at his cup.
“Don’t film everything. Don’t film everything,” he repeated silently.
Later, when he was back home, the day felt both full and calm. He hadn’t posted, streamed or “produced” anything – and still there was this vague feeling that something inside him had been working.
The AI greeted him with a dry status report:
“Today: 0 new posts, 0 stories, +12 new followers, +38 new messages.”
“See?” said Marvin. “The world keeps spinning without me posting.”
He sat down at his desk, opened his notebook and then – almost reluctantly – his laptop again. Not to plan a post, but to write down his thoughts from the café.
In a new document he wrote:
“Idea: A format that doesn’t put me in the center, but the questions of others.”
Underneath he added bullet points:
- “Not: ‘I explain life to you’, but: ‘I don’t know either – let’s look at it together.’”
- “No pressure to be perfect, just honest attempts.”
- “AI can suggest things, but doesn’t get the punchline.”
His AI popped up and commented:
“Note: you could call this format ‘Don’t ask me, ask all of us’.”
Marvin laughed.
“You know what? That’s actually not bad,” he said. “But you still don’t get the final say.”
He leaned back, put the pen down and realized that, for the first time in a while, a plan was forming in his head that felt less like obligation and more like possibility.
“Maybe,” he thought, “I don’t have to get rid of the chaos to do something meaningful. Maybe I just have to give it a place.”