Off-key Lovers

Scarlett Armani
9:43 AM

I wake up to my phone buzzing nonstop.

I have the morning off. And I have to finish record my music video this evening. Can't I have one morning without my phone blowing up?

Groggy and half-asleep, I blindly reach for it, squinting against the screen's brightness. My notifications are blowing up- again.

I blink. What the fuck?

I got non-stop nofications, from Twitter especially. And one nofication caught my eye.

@NashNation : GUYSSS! NASH JUST LIKED SCARLETT'S POSTT. HE DIDNT UNLIKE IT. WHAT DOES THIS MEANNNN???

My heart skips.

I click on Instagram, scrolling to my latest post. And there it is.

His name. Clear as day. Sitting under the likes like a ticking time bomb.

My stomach tightens.

Because this isn't an accident. This isn't some mindless double-tap in passing.

This is deliberate.

Nash Armani liked my post and left it there.

I exhale slowly, pulse hammering in my ears as I opened Twitter, scrolling through Twitter. The internet, of course, is eating this up.

@Scarnash4eva : HE WANTS HER BACK. ITS HAPPENING AHHHH

@scarhatepage : Or he's just messing with her LMAO.

My jaw clenches.

I tighten my grip on her phone. Messing with me? Yeah, that sounds like Nash. This is his game. He's not reaching out, he's not calling- he's just sitting there, knowing I saw it, knowing it's going to make me think about him.

This is what he does. Pokes. Presses. Knows exactly where to hit.

He's not reaching out, he's not calling, he's not texting- he's just sitting there, knowing I'll see it. Knowing it'll get under my skin.

I barely got any sleep and I have to deal with this.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it, his name under my likes. His decision to leave it there.

I spent two years pretending Nash Armani didn't exist. Buried him beneath angry lyrics and late-night studio sessions.

Convinced myself I didn't miss him, didn't think about him, didn't feel the ache of his absence.

And now?

One little notification. One stupid social media move.

Suddenly, I'm eighteen again, standing in the wreckage of us.

No. I'm not doing this. I'm not letting him get to me.

I grab my phone with trembling fingers, scrolling past the hundreds of fan comments and conspiracy theories until I find it.

His name. His like.

My thumb hovers over the three little dots next to it.

I could delete the post.

I could block him.

I could pretend he doesn't exist again.

But that would mean letting him win.

And I never lose.

Instead, I do something

I set my phone down for a second, inhale deeply, try to shake off the growing irritation pressing against my ribs.