The tone shifts the further down I go, losing whatever surface-level charm it started with and settling into something sharper, something that presses a little harder.
“Why are you ignoring me?”
“I know you’ve seen this.”
“You think you’re better than everyone now?”
My thumb slows without me meaning it to, catching on the shift, on the way it turns.
Then stops.
“I know where you live.”
It doesn’t stand out the way it should.
Not against everything else sitting around it.
It’s just there, buried in the middle of it like it belongs, like it’s no worse than the rest.
I tap into it anyway, more out of instinct than anything else.
The profile is empty.
No photo. No name that means anything. No detail that gives me something to work with.
Nothing.
I stare at it for a second, then back out, scrolling further, forcing myself to keep moving, to keep looking.
There are more like it.
Not always direct.
Some buried in comments.
Some in requests.
Some spaced out across days, weeks, threaded between everything else so they disappear if you don’t look closely enough.
All of it sitting there like background noise she just...lived with.
“She was dealing with all of this?” I say, not really directing it at anyone.
Jackson doesn’t look up.
“Yeah.”
Flat.
Like it’s nothing new.
“She didn’t say anything.”
“She wouldn’t,” he replies.
Of course she wouldn’t.
I keep moving.
