I never used to care much about Instagram. It was background noise — just another thing people did. I posted once in a while, usually something safe: my notes, a dog I saw on the way home, a filtered sunset. Sometimes, if I felt particularly bold, I’d post a selfie. Not that anyone noticed.

But your profile was different. I told myself it was curiosity, just checking in on a friend. But I kept checking in, over and over, even when I knew there was no new post.

And when there was one, it felt like being punched and kissed at the same time.

Today, it was a picture of you sitting at a café, caught mid-laugh, eyes crinkled and face glowing in that effortless way that made people look twice. Someone else had taken the photo — someone who got to be there, who got to see that laugh in person.

My heart clenched. My stomach twisted uncomfortably. I hated that feeling. It made me feel small and childish. Weak. But there it was.

I scrolled through the comments. They piled in like ants on sugar.

"You're glowing!""When are we hanging out again?""Omg this café looks so cute!"

I saw the likes too. You had liked almost every comment. Replied to a few with emojis and inside jokes I didn't understand.

I glanced at my own profile, then back. I had commented too — two posts ago. Something light, a little awkward, but it took me thirty minutes to write. No like. No reply. Not even a glance, it seemed.

The smallest detail stung the most: you still didn't follow me back.

I wasn't even sure when I started noticing that. Maybe the first time I saw you post a story and realized I wasn't tagged, even though I was right there, just out of frame. Or maybe it was when someone else joked with you online, something that sounded almost... possessive. Like they knew you better.

I swallowed hard.

It shouldn't matter.

We hung out in real life, didn't we? You shared snacks with me, waited for me after class, smiled when our eyes met. That had to mean something.

But then why did I feel like an outsider looking in?

The jealousy wasn't just sharp—it was confusing. It felt like anger, but softer. It felt like longing, but twisted. I told myself it was about being forgotten. About wanting to be chosen for once. But part of me — buried deep—wondered if maybe I wanted more than just attention.

Maybe I wanted you to look at me the way you looked at everyone else.

I locked my phone, then unlocked it again five seconds later, staring at the photo like it might change.

I didn't understand why it hurt. I just knew it did.