The fight was ugly.

Not loud—Cheryl Blossom never yelled unless she meant it—but sharp, precise, the kind of argument that cut deep because every word was chosen to hurt.

“You always leave first,” she said coldly. “And you always pretend you don’t care,” you shot back.

Her eyes flashed. “Then perhaps we’re both liars.”

And she walked away.

After that, she avoided you like a ghost.

She took different hallways at Riverdale High. Sat on the opposite side of the room. Spoke about you only in past tense—if at all.

But people noticed something strange.

Her phone never left her hand.

During class, she’d glance at it when she thought no one was watching. At lunch, she’d scroll, pause, and lock the screen quickly if someone came too close.

Toni noticed first.

“You know,” Toni said casually, leaning over Cheryl’s shoulder one afternoon, “most people delete photos after a breakup.”

Cheryl didn’t look up. “I’m not ‘most people.’”

“Uh-huh.”

You noticed too.

Your photos were still there. You knew because one night, by accident—or maybe by weakness—you opened your profile and saw it.

A picture from the summer fair. Another from Thornhill, sunlight catching her hair just right. A candid shot where she was laughing—really laughing—because of something you’d whispered.

They weren’t archived. They weren’t hidden.

They were still… public.