Kat_licious _verified_ -

Lena felt a twist in her gut. Not jealousy. Recognition.

She had been Kat once. Or maybe she had never allowed herself to be. She was the version of Kat who organized her bookshelves by color, who RSVP’d “yes” to parties and then found a reason to cancel, who posted photos of sunsets because they were safe. Her own profile, lena_scribbles , was a museum of quiet things: a well-made bed, a perfectly centered coffee cup, a shelf of plants with not a single brown leaf. kat_licious

She tapped the story highlights. The first circle was labeled “ raw .” Inside were shaky clips of city lights blurring past a car window, a snippet of a vintage synth song Lena didn’t recognize, a close-up of a cat’s eye, and a ten-second loop of rain hitting a skylight. No face. Just a mood. Lena felt a twist in her gut

The second highlight was “ loud .” This one was a party. Strobe lights, glitter on collarbones, a scream-laugh into the microphone of a karaoke machine, a toast with a bottle of cheap champagne, the foam spilling over. Kat’s face appeared here, but always in motion, a blur of joy and reckless abandon. She was beautiful in the way a wildfire is beautiful—something you admire from a distance but suspect would leave you scorched. She had been Kat once

She realized, with a jolt, that she wasn’t watching Kat at all. She was watching a version of herself she had been too afraid to become. And in doing so, she had forgotten that the person on the other side of the screen was just as lonely, just as curious, and maybe just as scared of being truly seen.

Lena’s thumb froze an inch above the screen. A chill raced down her spine. She looked at the view count on the story she had just watched. It was just a number, anonymous and vast. But in that moment, the blue glow of the phone felt less like a window and more like a two-way mirror.

Lena zoomed in on the hands. There was a tiny scar on the left thumb. She wondered if it was from a knife, a fall, or something else entirely.