The Tech Support: Coding the App That Deleted Me

My name is Marcus, and I am the developer of my own displacement.

Sophie had a "vision" for a new social networking app in San Francisco. She had the charisma; I had the code. For eighteen months, I worked sixteen-hour days. I built the back end, the front end, and the security protocols. I lived on ramen and energy drinks, pouring every ounce of my technical genius into her "dream."

We were "partners," or so I thought. We spent late nights in front of whiteboards, our shoulders touching, the air thick with the thrill of creation. I justified the lack of sleep and the zero pay because I believed we were building a future together.

The app went viral. It was acquired for $10 million. During the buyout negotiations, Sophie’s lawyer pointed out that I had never signed a formal partnership agreement. I had done everything on a "handshake" because I trusted her. Sophie looked at me across the table—the woman I had spent 500 nights with—and said, "Marcus is a brilliant contractor. We’ll be sure to give him a generous severance package."

Contractor. The word felt like a physical blow. She took the millions and the fame. She moved into a penthouse in Pacific Heights and started dating the venture capitalist who funded the buyout. I got a "generous" $50,000—a fraction of the value I had created. I still get notifications from the app every day, little pings that remind me of the code I wrote. I haven't deleted it. I can't. It's the only part of her I have left, even if I’m just User #2 in a world I built for her to rule without me.