Hello, you guys. Here I am again, trying something new. Last time I did a whole series of fashion posts which went way better than expected so thank you for reading those. It was a blast. This time I’m going to try my hand at fiction.
It’s daunting because for fiction, you’re basically creating a new world from scratch. It feels god-like, but also really scary. You have to bring life to characters by just imagining their history, problems, and insecurities which may be totally different from you own. And on top of it, the reader has to feel something. So no pressure, I guess.
I should really get to work. Here’s a very short story about Kim, Jordan, and breaking up in the era of social media.
A cryptic tweet, how typical. I wonder if any of my friends will reply to it. I kinda want them to, but at the same time I don’t, which really contradicts the whole idea of tweeting about it. You still follow me on Twitter so I hope you read it. But if I’m being honest, my “official” breakup tweet is more for me than anyone else—to start coming to terms that it’s actually over.
When did we start talking about important life events in tweets and status updates? It’s as if we have this fear that if we don’t let people know of the things we do, then they didn’t really happen. If I erase all traces of you in my social media accounts, does that mean our relationship wasn’t real?
My pride never allowed me to tell you this, but toward the end, I felt that you liked my posts and photos because you only felt obligated. Then that obligatory likebecame an obligatory “I love you,” an obligatory date, an obligatory kiss. Well, at least now you don’t have to do those things anymore.
I don’t want to see your posts, but I don’t want to appear that I can’t handle you moving on with your life either.
I scrolled through our messages on Facebook—all 20,755 of them—from the very first time we chatted. How many of those were because of a fight?
I should delete all these. But then I think if I read all of them again, I could find the exact moment when things started to go wrong. I want to know the time stamp for that.
That’s the last thing I see in our conversation. It’s glaring at me, taunting me with its finality.
“Seen” is such a weird word. How can it stand on its own like that? I want to be that word. I want to make sense on my own. I don’t want to need some other person to validate me.
But what I really want is for Facebook chat to sense what we actually feel. If it worked that way, instead of merely saying “Seen,” this is what you’d see in your chat box:
I wish our break-up were more poetic or romantic. I want to tear up love letters but all I have are text messages and call logs. I want to burn photos of us, see it slowly turn into ashes, and let the smell be the only memory that lingers. But all I do instead is angrily click “Delete” over and over again, fighting back tears as I remember those captured moments. I’m afraid of finally deleting the last photo because then everything will be as if it never happened, like a status update I failed to post.