Liked

He liked a photo from 2022 at 2:14 AM. Then unliked it three seconds later. Too late. I got the notification.

We hadn't spoken in seven months. His name was Jordan. A beautiful, messy, "we're not sure what this is" kind of thing that lasted most of my twenties, or at least the part of them I felt like I existed.

I was in bed. Phone on my chest. The notification slid down from the top. "jordan.p liked your photo."

I sat up. My heart did laps.

I opened my profile, and saw it. Or rather, I didn't. The like was gone. Withdrawn. Panicked. Like a hand pulled back from a hot stove.

But Instagram had already told me. And I'd already screenshotted it, because I'm a professional.

So I scrolled to find which photo it was. Not recent. Not even this year. I tapped back, back, back, through the grid.

2022. A blurry shot of me at a street market in Lisbon, squinting, holding a pastel de nata. It wasn't a good photo. My hair was a disaster.

It was the day we met.

He'd gone back three years. Down every post I'd ever made, through every filter, every birthday, every sunset. He'd scrolled all the way down to the first day he saw me.

Then he panicked.

I've never been so grateful for a bad photo.

Or so sad that he was too scared to leave the like.