She didn’t post you by accident. There was nothing subtle about it — no shadows, no cropped frames. Just her hand on your thigh in the first pic, your hoodie halfway off her shoulder in the second, and a full photo of the two of you at golden hour in the third — her arms wrapped around your neck, your lips on her cheek.

No tag. No caption. Just vibes. And everyone knew.

Her phone didn’t stop vibrating. Group chats blowing up. Instagram comments flooding in. The “Is this who I think it is??” tweets multiplying by the second.

She didn’t say a word — just walked into your place like she owned it, tossing her phone onto your couch and settling on your lap like nothing happened.

You raised an eyebrow. “That post was loud.”

She looked you dead in the eyes, lips curved. “Good. I’m done pretending you’re just some guy.”

You weren’t. You were him. The one she soft-launched a hundred times without meaning to — the hoodie pics, the out-of-frame hand, the second drink on the table. They noticed. They always noticed.

But this? This was different.

This was her saying, He’s mine. This was intentional.

And now? The world could talk. Because she wasn’t hiding anymore. And neither were you.