So here's how the story goes.How I met this interesting guy who's been haunting me for the past two years.
On a random July afternoon, I skipped class just to wander around the long hallways of the campus. It had become a habit. The campus was huge and well-equipped, but it always felt cold and empty. Nothing and no one around was particularly interesting. So I'd spend my time drawing landscapes on the basketball court with pieces of chalk. That was about the most fun I could find.
To my surprise, one of my classmates ran into me on his way to the cafeteria. He had nothing better to do either, but came full of gossip about one of his recent conquests; a guy five years older. We ended up sitting on the basketball court, eating cookies under a glowing orange sky. I laughed at every ridiculous detail of his story, trying to understand how he was so bold with guys.
Then, mid-laugh, he looked at me seriously—like he knew exactly what he was about to throw at me.
"You don't like anyone," he said.
I just laughed harder and looked at him calmly.
"Nope. There's no one interesting around here," I replied, popping another cookie into my mouth.
Adrien pulled out his phone and started scrolling through his Instagram followers. Meanwhile, I tried sketching him into my drawing—making him look hilariously exaggerated.
"Here," he said, pulling me out of my focus.
"His name's Stayler. He plays basketball. He's really tall."
I looked at his feed and the first thing I noticed was that face, a lethal facecard. Ideal attractiveness, with the most pretentious profile I'd ever seen… but somehow magnetically charged. I was speechless. Shocked that a face like that lived in this miserable little town.
Now it was Adrien who was laughing, proud of the dramatic reveal."So?" he asked."So what?" I said, handing his phone back."Aren't you gonna follow him, darling?"
I smiled and thought about it for a few seconds."Well… why not?" I said, giving him my phone so he could look him up.
He took it, searched the profile, and hit "follow." Satisfied, he handed it back to me,and that's when I noticed it: 2,675 followers.
My smile vanished instantly.
"Adrien… are you serious? He has over two thousand followers," I said, frowning.
"So what? If he thinks you're pretty, he'll follow you back. Chill, baby, I'm sure he'll be into you."
Then he stood up dramatically and walked away with his signature diva strut,leaving me confused as hell by what had just happened.
I got up too and followed him, waving my hands like "WTF?!""What does that even mean?!" I yelled from a distance.
I ended up standing in the middle of the courtyard, waiting for an answer that never came.
That night, before going to sleep, I checked his Instagram again. Stayler Grayson. 22 years old. A born athlete, national basketball league player, also in the local volleyball league. Active in the community, and a total girl-hunter. I could tell just by how curated his profile was, bait. Pure bait.
He was born and raised in the big city but had recently moved here after his mom married some important guy. Now he had three stepbrothers: the absolute worst kind of people you could meet in this town.
Of his 2,000+ followers, 95% were girls. And not just any girls. Gorgeous girls. Girls who happily flooded his comments with hearts and flames and praise. The comment section was a battlefield for attention, drama, ego, pure validation for a narcissist in the making.
I saw what kind of person he was… but I didn't care.
While scrolling through his following list, a random notification popped up: "@stail_z started following you."
I screamed, dropped my phone, and dove under the covers. My eyes shut tight. A chill ran through my body. It felt like a warning. I did not know what to think, so I left it there.
Next day I was sitting in class, just staring blankly, trying to figure out what to do. For me, this was already too much. I had tried everything I could. Adrien walked in late and immediately sat next to me. I showed him the notification on my phone. His eyes widened, and he let out a little gasp, loud enough for a few people around us to turn and stare.
"Now message him! He'll totally reply," he said, clearly thrilled to push this as far as it could go.
I looked at him with a teasing smile and shook my head silently. He gently grabbed my arm."Come on, Madz he'll answer you. I promise."
I stopped his hand with my left one and pushed it back down. "No… I don't think it's worth it," I replied.
But the rest of the afternoon, I couldn't stop thinking about it. It was all I could think about. I couldn't believe he'd actually followed me back. It felt… monumental.
That night, I sat at my desk and started drawing on my tablet. The music I had playing only made my thoughts more intense. If he followed me back, there was a good chance he'd respond. Right?
I took a deep breath, searched his name, opened the chat, and for the first time, I gathered all the courage I had to type: "Hey :)."
I immediately closed the chat and shoved my phone into the drawer. Then picked up the stylus again and kept drawing, secretly hoping I'd hear a notification sound.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then thirty. Then forty. Still nothing. Every minute that passed made me more anxious. My emotional stability was now entirely dependent on that one notification. I truly hoped he'd reply before midnight. But it never came. And that's when reality hit me in the face: he was never going to answer. Frustrated, I turned off my phone and went to bed. I had officially accepted the silence.
Next morning, I got up out of habit to get some water and walked to the kitchen. The silence of a warm morning was suddenly broken by the ping of a notification. Like a startled deer, I turned toward the sound—could it be...?
I ran back to my room and grabbed my phone, barely looking, not expecting it to be from who I hoped.
"Hey!"
I stared at the message, stunned, unable to believe it. I was completely frozen, not knowing what to say. I sat on my bed and looked at the notification again.
After a moment of silence, I carefully typed my reply—this was something I couldn't handle calmly.Inside, I was screaming.
"How's it going?"
"Good, just chillin'."
I didn't know what to say next, so I wrote what anyone in that situation would write:
"Nice!"
There was silence. I thought I had ruined the conversation.But then suddenly:
"Yeah, where are you from?"
I smiled with relief and replied. We talked for hours—a mutual introduction to our worlds, where everything seemed fascinating. Of course, it was the limerence stage—the illusions growing wild.It was all superficial, fast, and fleeting. I honestly don't remember what we talked about, only that three days later, he stopped replying.
Just like that, he was gone. And I was left with an emptiness, wondering why he had ghosted me. I convinced myself that maybe he liked me, that maybe, just maybe, he found me pretty.
After days without a response, I decided to post a story on Instagram showing one of my drawings. I checked it every two seconds—I wanted him to see it. It was all for him.
My anxiety grew, and my nails got bitten down by the force of my teeth. I checked one last time; he had viewed the story until hour 23—right before it disappeared. I stared at the screen for a while. In that moment, I knew I couldn't live like that not now, not never. I realized it wasn't what I had hoped for, and so I removed him from my followers. I unfollowed him.
The following months were silent, peaceful. No soul wandered the halls, and I was free to lie on the grass in the afternoons, doing nothing but sleeping. Those were good times—a full life.
Still, I had the urge to portray him, because it bothered me. I needed to channel it somehow, and art was my outlet.
On a red background, I painted half his face consumed by flames, and beneath that, a dark lake made of paper collage scraps. On the bridge over the water stood an ancient woman's figure, with a red shadow fading nearby, as if it didn't want to leave her but could only be an undefined shade.
I only gave an hour of my life to that painting, and promised myself not to overthink the whole thing.
Sometimes I think that behind the scenes there was always a craving for drama, for excitement.My life was boring enough to get myself into trouble I'd regret when I turned thirty.I was ready to make mistakes, but I didn't measure the consequences of my actions.