3.Secrets,Selfies and Subtle shifts
1271 Words
By the time I woke up, sunlight was streaming through the slits in my curtain, casting soft gold lines across the floor. My phone lay facedown beside me, untouched since last night. For a second, I just stared at it.
That ping.
I sat up slowly, my heart doing that weird half-anxious, half-excited flutter. I unlocked the screen and opened i********:.
1 message request.
I hesitated, biting my bottom lip, then tapped.
It wasn’t who I expected.
Not Mr. Whitaker.
It was some random guy well, not completely random. His handle looked familiar. A senior from school. Someone I’d seen hovering around sports events. Tall, always with his hoodie halfway zipped down, making himself look cool and effortlessly bored definitely not my type.
“Hey 👀 is this you? You look really pretty even with no face lol.”
I blinked.
He’d liked the photo. The faceless one. Just my arm, shoulder, a sliver of my jaw, and the soft blur of sunset behind me.
I didn’t reply. Not immediately.
Instead, I scrolled through the image again. It had fifteen likes. Some heart-eye comments. A girl from the school drama club even dropped: “Giving Pinterest vibes 🔥.”
It made me smile.
But that smile faded when my gaze shifted to my chat with Mr. Whitaker—still there, unread, just a few scrolls away.
A part of me wanted to say something. A bigger part wasn’t sure what that something would even be.
Ella and I met again that afternoon. Same café. Same cinnamon-laced air and clinking mugs that sound comforting
She had her laptop out, pretending to study, but as soon as I sat, she shut it dramatically. “Okay, spill.”
“Spill what?” I tried to play it off, sipping from her untouched drink.
She arched a brow. “That something sitting heavy in your chest. You’ve been carrying it for days.”
I hesitated, then sighed. “Fine. I’ll tell you. But no overreacting.”
“Me? Overreact? Never.” She smirked.
I exhaled.
“You know Mr. Whitaker?”
Ella sat straighter. “The publishing guy? The one with the deep voice and weirdly perfect eyebrows?”
“That one.”
She squinted. “Okay…”
“We started texting. A while ago. After he complimented my essay.”
There was a long pause.
“You what?” she whispered loudly, leaning across the table like this was a gossip column reveal.
“He DM’d me. Said I had potential. That I wrote like someone older.”
Ella’s face contorted. “Wait hold up. How old is he again?”
“Mid-twenties.”
She blinked. “Kamsi.”
“It wasn’t anything serious,” I said quickly, but I could hear the lie in my own voice. “At least not at first.”
Ella didn’t say anything. Just stared.
“He sent me money for a school project,” I added.
Her eyes widened.
“He what?”
“Two hundred dollars. Just like that.”
Ella leaned back, her expression unreadable. “And you didn’t think to tell me? When was this?”
“A few weeks ago.”
She looked like she was chewing glass. “Is he still messaging you?”
I hesitated. “Not recently. But… I keep thinking about him.”
Ella crossed her arms. “Carla, I love you, but this?think about it well”
“I know,” I cut in, trying not to let my voice shake.
She softened. “I’m not judging you. I’m just concerned.”
I nodded.
There was silence for a beat, then she asked gently, “Do you like him?”
I looked away.
“I think… I liked the way he noticed me. The way he made me feel seen. Heard. Appreciated. Like I wasn’t just someone stuck in a silent house with a mother who never looks up.”
Ella reached across the table, squeezing my hand. “You are seen. Even when you feel invisible.”
My throat tightened.
“And you know,” she added, “being wanted isn’t the same as being loved.”
I nodded again, unable to speak for a moment.
Later that night, I sat on my bed, scrolling through my camera roll.
For a long time, I had avoided pictures of myself. I’d either delete them or crop out my face. It wasn’t that I thought I was ugly I just didn’t feel like someone worth showing off.
But now… something was shifting.
I picked a photo one Ella took last month at the park. Soft lighting, flowers behind me, my head turned slightly to the side, lips curled into a half-smile. It was… nice.
Then another. A mirror selfie in a sleek, casual outfit. Tasteful. Confident.
I posted them.
One at a time. Spaced out.
The likes trickled in slowly at first, then more steadily.
A DM pinged. Then another.
And another.
One read: “Damn, where’ve you been hiding?”
Another: “You look like you belong on a magazine cover.”
I didn’t know what to do with all the attention. Part of me wanted to bask in it. Another part felt guilty like I was breaking some silent rule I’d grown up with.
Still, I posted again the next evening. A shot of me laughing candid, hair in motion. Captioned: “Just in case you forgot I exist.”
The message requests doubled.
Ella saw one of the posts and sent me voice notes filled with shrieks and fake crying.
“YOU LOOK LIKE YOU INVENTED THE SUN. Are you even real??”
“Men are finished. Over. Done. I fear for them.”
“Post more. The people deserve it.”
I laughed until I couldn’t breathe.
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like a shadow in my own life.
But beneath the glow of filters and fire emojis, something kept tugging at me.
The chat with Mr. Whitaker still sat unread.
My thumb hovered over it one night.
What was I hoping he’d say? That I was special? That he missed me? That he made a mistake?
I clicked it open.
His last message was short.
“Thinking of you. Hope your project went well.”
It was dated two weeks ago.
No pressure. No innuendo. Just distant now.
I didn’t reply.
I didn’t delete it either.
Instead, I went back to my feed and opened my DMs.
One guy had sent a voice note. Curious, I played it with the volume low.
His voice was gentle, thoughtful. “I hope this isn’t weird, but your posts remind me of someone I used to know. There’s… peace in your pictures. Confidence too. Thought I should say that.”
No flirting. No weird comments. Just that.
I didn’t reply immediately. But I saved the message.
Maybe just maybe there were better connections out there.
Ones that didn’t start with power imbalances and compliments.
That night, I journaled.
I feel weird. Happy, but still carrying that emptiness.
Is it possible to glow and grieve at the same time?
Part of me wants to keep posting and never stop. Another part feels like I’m not allowed to like myself this much. Like I’m breaking my mom’s invisible rules.
But I want to be seen. Really seen.
Maybe not for a man. Maybe for me.
Maybe for the girl in the café who laughed so loud she forgot she was supposed to be quiet.
The next day, I wore lip gloss.
Just because.
Ella called me dramatic.
I told her I was reborn.
- Writer
