The filter of truth. Maybe.

They had appeared just like that – light, composed. Two slender figures in the evening, well-dressed, a little tired yet determined. Golden sandals, tight dresses, clean skin. No foundation, no eyeliner, no makeup. But well-groomed, intact, “ready.” It wasn’t a statement of authenticity – it was more of a directorial move. Because the filter would take care of the rest. In front of the fountain—baroque, beautiful, in the heart of a postcard-perfect square—the two friends hadn’t started taking pictures right away. First, they had, as they say, scrolled. For quite a while.

They analyzed the filters, imagining which one might be right: “Hollywood3,” “Natural Light 2,” “Warm Kiss,” “Milky Blur,” and so on. They weren’t choosing an image. They were choosing an identity. Not a photo to save, but who they wanted to be in that moment.

Then came the selfies. Dozens. Different angles, smiles, silences.

A man watched them from a distance. A passerby, the kind who doesn’t look to judge, but to try to understand.

The girls laughed while editing the images. At first glance, those on the screen weren’t really them. Or maybe they were—just in another version. Fuller lips, smoother skin, doe eyes.

The man approached. Half out of curiosity, half out of courage.

— Can I take one for you?

— Sure! But you have to use the “Charm” filter.

— Why that one?

— Because we like it.

— You like looking different?

— We like looking the way we imagine ourselves.

He took the shot. Handed back the phone. Looked at the screen and, for a moment, saw another version of them.

Then, almost playfully:

— Can I pick a filter too?

— Of course.

— Then put “Cute” on me.

They laughed. Took more pictures.

He looked at the photo and, looking at himself, said:

— Oh. I look differently me.

The man said goodbye and left. But that phrase stayed in his mind, like a small gentle truth. “Differently me.” It wasn’t a judgment. It was an acknowledgment—or maybe, a discovery.

He thought maybe we don’t always want to seem real, and he wondered: in the end, what does it even mean to be real? He asked himself if one truth could be more true than another, and he answered that, sometimes, we just want to explore who we could be.

Not to fake it. But to play. To say: today, I feel like this. Tomorrow, we’ll see. Or rather—you’ll see.

He concluded that maybe the filter of truth didn’t exist. Maybe there was only the filter of the moment. Even if it was just for a story on Instagram. Even if it lasted a second. And the next second… who knows.