The phone screen still glowed in my hand, the towel forgotten over my shoulder. The bathroom, the promise of hot water and recovered dignity, had all evaporated. All that existed was that notification. That sharp, unfamiliar ping from a photo app I barely used. And those three words:
@StarryNight88: Saw you today.
My heart gave such a violent leap it felt like it tried to escape through my throat. I froze. The phone almost slipped from my sweaty hand. Saw you today? I repeated the phrase mentally, each syllable a tiny electric shock. Today? What do you mean, today? When? Where?
My eyes darted around my chaotic room, as if expecting to find the sender hiding behind the pile of dirty clothes or peeking over the stacked manga. The window! I rushed over, pulling the thick curtain aside with trembling fingers just enough to peer outside. The street was dark, wet from the rain that had stopped, only the orange glow of the streetlights reflecting in the puddles. Nobody. No suspicious figures, no unmarked black van. Of course not, you idiot. This isn't a spy movie.
But then… who? And when? Today… today I only… went out to get the pizza. Was it the delivery guy? Was that weird look he gave me… interest? Or was he just shocked by my deplorable state? But how would he find my profile on this photo app? My profile is practically a ghost, I barely post anything! And my username has nothing to do with my real name! Unless he's some kind of hacker-stalker-pizza-delivery guy? My God, Beatriz, you're spiraling.
I went back to the center of the room, hugging myself, the dirty hoodie suddenly feeling too thin. My mind frantically rewound the last few minutes. The clumsy descent down the stairs. The awkward exchange of words ("Hope you enjoyed it?" Argh!). Did he see me in these clothes? With this hair? Did he see me… Oh, no. The blood drained from my face. Did he see me eating pizza like a starving animal? Did he see me scratch my ass? NO! The mental image was so horrifying I groaned softly. If someone saw the ass-scratch, I'd have to move countries. Maybe planets.
I took a deep breath, trying to force air into lungs that felt like they'd shrunk. Okay, calm down. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's a mistake. A bot. Someone messaging the wrong person. I need to investigate.
With a determination born of pure panic, I sat down in my computer chair, the throne of my kingdom of disorder. The phone felt like it weighed a ton. Time for Operation Reverse Stalker. I opened the photo app again, heart hammering against my ribs, and clicked on the cursed profile: @StarryNight88.
The profile was exactly what I'd expect from someone sending cryptic messages in the middle of the night: practically a black hole of information. The profile picture was a silhouette against a star-filled night sky. Wow, how deep. Or just lazy. Zero posts. Followers? Very few, and the profile was private, of course. The name, @StarryNight88? Seriously?
I threw the username into a general internet search engine. Nothing. Tried other popular social networks. Nothing. A digital ghost. Or someone very careful. Or just a new profile created specifically to… torment me? I checked my own ghost profile on that app. No clues. No suspicious new followers. The ninja hacker delivery guy came back to mind. Okay, this has officially become a Z-movie script.
The night dragged on. The idea of a shower was abandoned; the energy simply wasn't there. I ate two more slices of cold pizza straight from the box, the cheese now having the texture of rubber. I tried watching a new anime, but my eyes kept flicking back to the silent phone. The unanswered message seemed to pulse in the dark. I eventually fell asleep in the chair and had confusing dreams involving pizza delivery guys with starry eyes and dead skunks reciting poetry about personal hygiene.
I woke up with an aching neck and the gray Saturday light filtering through the gaps in the curtain. I felt like I'd been run over by a garbage truck and then left to marinate in my own sweat. My hair seemed to have a life of its own – a very, very dirty life. And, of course, I desperately needed the bathroom.
The prospect of leaving the room and facing civilization (also known as my family) was almost unbearable. But the bladder has reasons that reason knows not. I gathered all my courage (a pathetically small amount), adjusted yesterday's hoodie (which was now officially today's hoodie too), and opened the door, sneaking down the hallway like a creature of the shadows hungry for coffee… or at least the bathroom.
No such luck. As soon as I stepped into the neutral (and relatively cleaner) territory of the living room, a shrill voice cut through the morning silence.
"Look who decided to grace the mortals with her stinky presence!" Leo was sprawled on the sofa, game controller in hand, eyes fixed on the TV, but his annoying-brother radar was fully operational. "Thought you'd fused with the mattress for good."
I ignored him, focusing on the goal: bathroom. But he wasn't finished.
"Whoa, Bia, seriously." He paused his game and turned his head, a mischievous grin on his teenage face. He sniffed the air dramatically. "The smell of 'loser nerd who hasn't seen water in days' is strong today. That's past the greasy stage, it's more like an oil rig on your hair. Do you need a shower or a miracle?"
I reached the bathroom door, my hand on the knob. "Shut up, Leo," I muttered, my voice hoarse from disuse and impotent anger.
"Ooh, the living dead speaks!" he retorted, already turning his attention back to the game.
I locked myself in the bathroom, the only place in the house where I had any privacy (and even then, I wasn't entirely sure). I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Leo was right. I looked like a disaster. The dark circles were deeper, the pale skin had a suspicious sheen, the hair… let's not talk about the hair. And the message. The message was still there, on the phone I'd brought with me (why? Fear of missing something? Or just masochism?).
I used the toilet, splashed cold water on my face (which didn't help much), and left, resigned to facing the next stage: the kitchen. Hunger was winning out over misanthropy.
My parents were there. My mom, making coffee, gave me a tired smile. "Morning, sleepyhead! Finally surfaced!" My dad was reading something on a tablet but looked up. "Hey, kiddo."
"Morning," I mumbled, heading straight for the fridge in search of anything edible that required no effort.
"Don't you guys think she's looking more like an anime zombie lately?" Leo's voice came from the living room. "All she needs is to start moaning 'brains… or instant ramen…'"
"Leonardo, manners! Leave your sister alone," my mom scolded, but without much force.
"Take it easy, son," my dad added, already turning back to his tablet.
I grabbed an expired yogurt (only by a day, should be fine) and a piece of bread that looked suspiciously hard.
"Honey," my dad began, lowering the tablet again. "It's a beautiful day out! You could go for a walk, get some fresh air..."
"Yeah," my mom agreed, placing a mug of coffee in front of me (a peace offering?). "Or maybe call that friend of yours… Carol? Going out for a bit would do you good."
The idea of going out. Of calling someone. Fresh air. My stomach churned. I just wanted to go back to my dark, safe room (except for the possible stalker).
"Go out for what?" Leo yelled from the living room, obviously hearing everything. "To scare the little kids at the park? Or to look for a job as a professional scarecrow?"
"Not in the mood," I muttered, grabbing my yogurt and hard bread. "Maybe later." It was my standard answer for everything.
"Okay, Bia," my mom sighed, seeming too tired to push it.
I fled back to my room, closing the door behind me with almost painful relief. I threw myself into the chair. The family assault, even if some of it was well-intentioned, only made me feel worse. More aware of my appearance, my smell, my general failure as a functional human being. Loser. Weirdo nerd. Stinky. Leo's words echoed.
I picked up the phone. The notification from the photo app was still there. The message from @StarryNight88. Saw you today. Today was yesterday, now. Whoever it was, they'd seen me in my most vulnerable post-pizza state. And my family just reinforced how pathetic I was.
Anger bubbled beneath the anxiety. Impotent anger at Leo, at my parents for not understanding, at the world for being so difficult, and at this mysterious @StarryNight88 for invading my already precarious mental space.
My finger hovered over the screen. Block? Ignore? Or… find out? The interaction with my family, strangely, gave me a push. A spark of "screw it." What did I have to lose, anyway? My dignity was already in tatters.
I took a deep breath. Opened the conversation. And with my heart beating so fast it felt like it wanted to burst out of my mouth, I typed the shortest, most neutral reply I could think of. A single character.
?
Sent.
And I threw the phone onto the bed as if it were going to explode. I stared at the dark screen, waiting. The silence in the room seemed to grow heavier, charged with a terrible expectation.
Now what?