The Day the Algorithm Blinked First.
It happened at 10.14 a.m., a time usually reserved for tea and mild self-loathing. I opened the dashboard expecting the usual polite slump. Instead, I saw a spike. A vertical line. A cliff face. A graph performing acrobatics.
For a full three seconds, I thought I had died. Then I wondered if the platform had died. Then I regretted not cleaning the flat in case fame arrived early.
The spike pulsed again. My stomach followed. The room went very still.
The kettle, mid-boil, hesitated. The cat froze mid-groom, holding one paw aloft like Hamlet with allergies. Even the gecko on the ceiling shifted position, which it only does when history is unfolding.
I refreshed the page.
The spike stayed.
I refreshed again, just to annoy myself. The spike stayed again.
Unsettling.
I have had spikes before, but they are usually caused by a typo gone viral or a rogue American who thinks I am someone else. This one felt different. Innocent. Quiet. Slightly suspicious, like finding a crisp five dollar note exactly where you needed encouragement.
Thirty new visitors. Nineteen returning. One person opened six posts in a row, which is either devotion or a cry for help.
My brain began constructing theories.
Perhaps a celebrity had shared my work.
Perhaps someone mildly influential had nodded in my direction.
Perhaps the algorithm, normally a damp cupboard with feelings, had finally decided to flirt.
The room vibrated with possibility. Then fear. Then possibility again.
I refreshed until my fingerprints dulled.
The Symptoms
A sudden urge to check every hour. Then every five minutes. Then every time a bird made eye contact.
Fantasising about a future where all posts spike like obedient dolphins.
Paranoid thoughts that the spike is a glitch and the platform will email to say, Sorry, we meant this for someone clever.
A growing suspicion that analytics can smell hope.
