4. Left on Read
1161 Words
The blue and purple glow of my phone screen cast soft shadows on my wall. I had spent the past ten minutes lying on my bed, staring at the i********: message from Mr.Ethan
“Hello.”
That was it. No “Hey, it’s me,” no emojis, no awkward explanation just a plain, empty hello.
It had been sitting in my DM requests since last night. From a new account. No display picture, just a black circle and the username but with multiple followers who were really beautiful ladies .
Mr. Whitaker.
I knew it was him. The initials,The eerie simplicity. I’d stared at the message so long it felt like it had burned itself into the inside of my eyelids.What was I supposed to say? Hi? Hello back? Why are you messaging me on i********:?
I locked the screen and tossed my phone across the bed I'm so confused ughhh!!!
Leave him on read, I told myself. You owe him nothing and so I did.
By morning, the message was still there. Unanswered.
I brushed my teeth while side-eyeing my phone on the bathroom counter if he'd message me again. My curiosity was louder than my logic. When I rinsed my mouth and grabbed my towel, I unlocked it again.
Still just “Hello.”
My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long second before I responded
“Hi.”
Simple. Distant. Vague.I barely made it down the stairs when my phone buzzed in my hand.“How are you?”Shet Shet Shet wasnt he supposed to be at work or something I should’ve ignored it. But I didn’t
“I’m good.”Another reply, fast.
“I hope you are doing good?”
I stared at that message for a while, my thumb frozen. Something twisted inside me, not quite guilt, not quite relief. I didn’t know what I was doing, but the conversation kept going. It was all surface-level. Nothing inappropriate. Just… soft and quiet and oddly consistent.
The kind of digital breadcrumb trail that feels harmless until you realize you’re following it deeper than you planned.
The more we chatted, the more I got to know he wasn't really a boring person,the more I posted. My i********: started to look like someone new lived there. Still no selfies, but there were snapshots of books, coffee cups, fuzzy socks, and mood boards. I used soft filters, pastel tones, and short cryptic captions that gave nothing away but always made people comment.
Ella noticed.
“You’re becoming a little influencer, huh?” she teased one afternoon when she dropped by my place with a bottle of wine tucked under her arm my must see that,I rolled my eyes but laughed. “Hardly. I just… I don’t know. Posting makes me feel like I great I like the attention"
Ella raised an eyebrow. “Well you have all of my undivided attention"
We sat on my bedroom floor, the bottle of red wine between us, sipping from mismatched mugs because Mom didn’t believe in keeping wine glasses around. Ella had brought the wine from her older sister’s stash. It was fruity with a little percentage of alcohol and made the room feel warmer than usual.
“How’s Ethan?” she asked, stretching her legs out in front of her.
I hesitated before answering. “He messaged me. On Instagram.”
Ella blinked. “Wait. What? Ethan as in Mr. Whitaker?”
I nodded slowly.
She set her mug down with a thunk. “I'm shocked Carla?”
“I didn’t reply right away,” I said quickly. “And it’s nothing serious. He just… said hello. And we’ve just been chatting.”
“Chatting?” Ella repeated, her eyes wide. “Are you hearing yourself right now?”
“It’s not what you think. He hasn’t said anything weird plus he isn't as boring as he portrays in public It’s not like before.”
“Yet.”
I looked down at the carpet, picking at a loose thread. “I don’t even know why I replied. I guess… I missed being seen.”
Ella softened. She leaned in and nudged me with her shoulder. “I get that. But you need to protect yourself. You’re not a secret. You’re a whole person.”
I swallowed hard. “He said he misses talking to me.”
“And what do you want?” she asked gently.
That question felt too big for the room.
“I don’t know but I find him interesting ,” I whispered.
We didn’t talk about it much after that. Instead, we giggled over random videos on the internet and pulled out face masks from my drawer. I put on a lo-fi playlist, and we spent the next hour lounging like the world wasn’t complicated.
It felt good. Familiar. Safe.
But the moment didn’t last.
I heard the front door slam, and Ella shot me a look.
“Mom’s home,” I said, standing.
We scrambled to clear the mugs and the wine bottle, tossing it into my laundry basket for the time being. Ella wiped her lips with the back of her hand and grabbed her jacket.
“Do I have time to run out the back?” she whispered.
I laughed. “You’re not a fugitive.”
Still, she left quickly after giving me a tight hug. “I'll text you when I'm home"I nodded.
Dinner was quiet,Mom didn’t say much, but I could tell she was in one of her moods. She moved with precision, her lips pressed into a line, her heels clicking on the tiled floor like punctuation marks to her unspoken disappointment.I cleared the dishes before she asked and retreated back to my room.
There, in the safety of my little digital world, I reopened i********:.
Mr. Whitaker had sent another message.
“You always had a good eye. Your photos are beautiful.”
I felt the compliment land in my stomach. Soft, but weighted.
I typed:
“Thanks.”
Then added, before I could overthink it:
“Didn’t know you were into photography.”
He replied instantly.
“Not really but I like your photos.”
I blinked,Then locked my phone.I didn’t reply for the rest of the night. I paced. I journaled. I stared at my reflection and asked myself what I was doing again.
I had stepped into this knowing it wasn’t innocent. Not fully. And yet, some part of me needed to hear those words, even if they were laced with something dangerous.
The next morning, my follower count had gone up by twenty-five.
A new comment on my latest post read:
“You’re a mystery and I love it.”
I wasn’t sure who I was becoming online, but it felt like I was in control for once. I chose what to reveal. I chose what to hide.
Even if real life was a mess, at least here, I could curate the chaos.
- Writer
