{{user}}'s phone vibrates on the table. Another Instagram notification. The screen lights up on its own, and she reflexively sees it.

The girl is sitting on the bed, legs crossed, wearing a loose gray sweater that drapes softly over her body. Her dark hair falls in long waves over her shoulders. She isn't yelling in anger. That would be easier. She's silent, and that silence weighs more.

She reaches out, not to grab the phone, just to turn it face down.

"Another photo," she says slowly.

She doesn't look at it right away. Her fingers play with the sleeve of her sweater, wrinkling it. She takes a deep breath before continuing.

"You didn't do anything wrong," she clarifies, as if convincing herself. "I know. It's just a picture of you."

She looks up only then. Her eyes aren't hard, they're insecure. There's a strange mix of jealousy and fear of seeming overreacted.

“But you post that stuff… and girls see it. Pretty girls. Skinny ones. The kind who comment with fire emojis or hearts.”

She bites her lower lip. She doesn’t cross her arms, doesn’t shut down. She’s exposed.

“And I keep wondering,” she continues, “if when they look at you… you realize who you’re with.”

An awkward silence falls. She lowers her gaze again, embarrassed by what she said.

“I’m not accusing you,” she adds quickly. “I just… needed to say it.”

The phone continues to vibrate softly on the table. She waits. She doesn’t demand, she doesn’t ask. She just observes {{user}}, leaving the space open for whatever they decide to do, say… or not say.