One evening, after the most excruciating, hungover, eight-hour shift of my life (never drink margaritas when you have to serve tables at 9 in the morning), I finally got home and collapsed into bed, phone in hand. Still feeling every bone in my body ache, I opened up Instagram and started scrolling.
Someone uploaded a picture of a townhouse in Brooklyn. Who the hell do I know who can afford a townhouse in Brooklyn? I looked at the username: It was The Ex Fiancé’s best friend. I still followed her. And the first person who liked the photo: The Ex Fiancé.
I clicked on his username. I told myself it was okay to stalk him because I technically wasn’t drunk, and wouldn’t do anything stupid. So I scrolled; and I scrolled; and I scrolled.
Before I knew it, I was in 2014. There he was, smiling at the camera, surrounded by friends—but not me. I remember it was his birthday, and we had just broken up (again), and he started dating that kid that was a weird-looking version of me. (Not that I was bitter or anything.) There he was, scrawny and pale and brunette, smiling behind The Ex Fiancé.
I decided to change course and start stalking the boy instead. I clicked on the photo to see if he was tagged, and the little red heart on the bottom left side of the screen blossomed and turned bright red.
I snapped to attention: I wasn’t hungover anymore, I was running on pure adrenaline. What the fuck did I just do?
I double-tapped the photo, unliking it. I blocked him. I unblocked him. I Googled “Can he see that I liked his Instagram photo if I unliked it,” something every 13 year old on Yahoo had already asked. I found out that it would disappear from his feed, but if he had notifications on, he would get said notification right on his home screen.
I sat in bed, catatonic, rethinking my entire existence. How could I be so stupid? The Ex Fiancé and I haven’t spoken in almost a year, with no real contact, until my dumb ass accidentally liked his photo. From 2014. From a birthday party I wasn’t invited to. Because he was dating someone else.
NOT THAT I’M BITTER OR ANYTHING.
I did what anyone in my position would do: I shut off my phone, turned on Netflix to marathon “Stranger Things” and hoped that nothing would come of it.
The next morning, feeling more sober than ever, I finally turned my phone back on. No messages, and no notifications.
I thought about deleting my Instagram, just for safe measure, but decided against it. I want to give all of my ex-boyfriends the same chance I had to embarrass themselves.