It was quiet.

A Tuesday she had, luckily, free on her schedule.

A day equal to any other.

Olivia was in her bed, messy bedsheets, and multiple coloured plushies keeping her company. Her laptop lay open with an article for a literature review for college, a half-written document blinking at her accusingly.

Her phone lit up.

Petunia had posted a story after a long time.

Olivia tapped it without thinking, regretting it immediately.

The video opened to laughter echoing between old buildings.

They were in the city center.

The same square they had walked through together weeks before.

Giulia leaned into the frame. Helena spun once under the lights. Petunia tilted her head slightly, holding her phone as the designated photographer. 

She often held her hand up to the flash, she said it made for better photos. Candids were her favourite. Until one day she didn't, and had said Olivia’s penchant for photo taking was annoying.

She liked holding the camera.
It meant she could choose who was inside the frame.

“Girls’ night!” someone shouted.

Olivia watched the green circle around the profile picture fade into grey. 

Suddenly, there was no story. 

She had been removed.

She told herself it shouldn’t matter.

People were allowed to go out without her.

They were allowed to live.

To not tell her everything.

But Petunia had been a diary to her. They kept each other’s darkest secrets, or maybe just Olivia kept Petunias, the girl did not know anymore.

She only knew her chest tightened.

Because she remembered.

The first time she had seen them like that.

Another Instagram story. Another glowing screen in a dark bedroom.

A group of girl’s in the smallest tops, and run down makeup in a classy way somehow. In the bathroom of the college’s mirror. There was space for one more, then Olivia would be cool for once.

She had watched that story three times. Imagining everything she wanted.

That warmth.

That chaos.

That belonging.

When Petunia invited her to get Subway weeks later, Olivia had felt chosen.

Pulled into something sacred. The cult of girlhood. Of extreme positiveness that turns bitter with one drop of poison.

Now she watched the sacred circle from the outside again.

But this time she knew the way they laughed.

She knew the rhythm of their voices.

What belonging to the sacrificial circle meant.

Naturally, when she defied it, finding herself stepping out of the line of salt that kept everyone else outside.

Slowly, over the past few weeks, she had noticed something.

Replies had grown slower.

Plans were mentioned after they had already happened.

Inside jokes formed mid-conversation.

She told herself everyone was busy.

Until one night she saw it.

A screenshot in Helena’s story.

A group chat.

The same name.

But with a small “2” beside it.

She stared at the number.

It looked harmless.

Administrative.

Almost polite.

The original group still existed.

She hadn’t even known it was happening.

She lowered her phone slowly.

Maybe she had imagined the shift.

It was shocking, dry and cruel. As if a switch, love turned cold.

Maybe she had grown inconvenient.

“You’re so selfish.”

The word resurfaced like something unfinished.

She opened the main group chat.

Messages flooded in.

Photos. Laughing emojis.

“Best night.”

“We have to do this again.”

No one asked where she was.

No one asked if she’d like to come.

She typed: Looks fun 🤍

Then deleted it.

There had been a time she would have cried.

A time she would have promised to be easier.

Quieter.

Less.

Now she just sat there.

Sure, they would never understand what they did.

To them, it was just another night.

Her laptop screen blinked softly beside her, still waiting for the literature review.

The cursor moved.

Patient.

Accusing.