The next morning I awake dry-mouthed and dehydrated, the sticky wineglass hovering on the windowsill like a mocking reminder of indolence. I really hadn’t drunk that much since coming to live here, so my tolerance is low. Apparently, one or two glasses is enough to do me in now.

The house itself is quiet like it was last night, and I wonder with a tug of trepidation if Mom is out again with her new beau. From the light shining in the window, I’d guess it’s probably early afternoon already. I’d somehow slept through the blender’s whirring and her departure. But I decide not to trudge downstairs, make my coffee. All my hands want to do is grab my phone and get back to my late-night activities, despite that ache I felt, the gnawing self-doubt about the reasons behind my fascination. Something about the new day forces me to put all of that aside, my brain refusing to relapse back into my guilt, resisting the impulse to examine this perversion.

I switch to my laptop, my hand still cramped from holding my phone and scrolling last night.

It’s winter. Odilie posts photos of the snow, idyllic and otherworldly, outlining the trees, blanketing the roads. She posts a photo of spiked cider she’s made, the blurry face of someone in the background, whom she calls her roommate in the caption, not tagged.

Odilie gets a new cell phone, an iPhone 4S. She takes a picture of it with her digital camera. I had the same one, much to the envy of my classmates.

Odilie posts a wider shot of herself behind a receptionist’s desk, face peeping out, the desk itself still decorated with garlands and wreaths even though Christmas is long gone. I google the name of the office, hashtagged in the captions. A dental practice. The website shows a gleaming staff, all with straight, white teeth, a Wyneck address. I wonder if the 4.5 star Google review they get is accurate, whether it was a good place to work. Odilie doesn’t post about it much after that. I wonder how long she stayed.

More photos of her weekends. Some goofy Apple Photo Booth photos. It’s all so mundane, and yet I keep scrolling. She’s still her old self in all of these photos, round with a choppy haircut and thin eyebrows. She gets a tattoo of a butterfly on her ankle.

Odilie dyes her hair a platinum blonde. Then she dyes the ends pink. Then, just as quickly, she goes back to brown.

Someone gets a dog, a Chihuahua called Cookie; Odilie poses with it. Then a few posts later there’s another picture of Cookie, asking if anyone wants to take him in, the dog’s eyes sad and wet.