My Instagram is captivating. Almost in the same way Odilie’s was, like I’m looking at a facsimile of someone I almost know. Right down to my body language, I can gauge something so existentially different from who I am now. I even hold my arms at a different angle; the way my face creases when I take a selfie is now archaic, from a different era.

I could get lost in myself, in all my different outfits and poses. All the different photographs I took of the city, of strange, aesthetically interesting things I saw. A dead fish washed up on a beach. A close-up of an orange rind. Photos that made me happy in the moment. Now that I’m looking at them with fresh eyes, I can see the artistic merit in them.

I remember Huda chiding me to post more pictures of myself, which is how all the fun outfit photos start accumulating. I hated doing those, not because I hated how I looked or how I dressed, but because it felt too compliment seeking, like asking the world for validation I didn’t need. But I played the game and well. My photos, out to dinner, at galleries, in the park, are all well lit, well staged. I look mysterious and enticing, but also approachable enough to sell Magdelena, a brand whose messaging is inclusivity.

Huda should have paid me for this shit on top of my salary, I think. Or maybe I should have realized my own abilities when I had the chance.

I start downloading all the images I want for the collages, ones where my outfits are on full display, where my form is distinct and noticeable, where my old signature burgundy coffin-shaped nails pop.

Since I’d disabled my Instagram right when I heard the news last year, everything really is like an untouched archive, from the Before Times. There aren’t any comments connecting me in any way to the murders. And for a second I wonder why I hadn’t reactivated earlier.

Looking at these photos, I feel that itch again, that tingle that I may be missing something. I stare at a photo of myself in front of a mirror at Violet, a boutique hotel in the East Village, my hair done up in a twist, my lips painted red, wearing a navy sheath dress. The mirror is ornate, gold and rococo, and the room behind me is vast.

And without thinking about it, without allowing myself to think too much about it, I open a new Instagram tab on my laptop and go to Odilie’s page, start looking at her grid, studying the photos that I’d flown past last time I looked.