The Streak

We broke up in February. We're still on a four hundred and twelve day Snapchat streak.

His name was Leo. Every day for over a year, we sent each other pictures of nothing. A ceiling. A blurry shoe. My thumb. It was the dumbest, most perfect love language.

When we ended, I told myself I'd stop. Cold turkey. But the streak was still alive, because somehow, every night at 11:58 PM, a picture of his ceiling would appear.

Not a word. Not a "hey." Just that ceiling. And I'd send my own back, like a hostage proof of life.

I told my friends it was "just a habit." Priya said, "Babe, that's emotional CPR."

Last night I forgot. I was at a gig, phone dead, happy for once. I got home at 1 AM, plugged in, and my stomach dropped. The little hourglass. Gone.

Then a message popped up from Leo, the first real words in months.

"You missed it."

I typed, "Yeah, sorry, my phone died."

He wrote back, "It's okay. I kept it going for as long as I could."

I stared at that for a long time.

I'd thought I was the only one holding on.

Turns out he'd been sending those ceilings to a girl who'd stopped replying weeks ago.

I'd been sending mine on the days he wasn't even there.

We were both just saving a streak.

Neither of us was saving us.