And she had said, “Nah, I’m more hysterical than you because I spend more time online.”

Available, just like the Gmail status, that’s how she always presented herself to men. She couldn’t help it. She and her friend admitted it to each other. And they shot each other critical glances that deep down hid some hint of fascination. Why did she so like to feel desired? Why did she always have to get the attention of everyone around her at a party? Why did she need all his friends to want her? The hardest question to answer, one she didn’t even dare to ask, was why she didn’t go all the way and cheat. Was it because she was truly faithful, or because she didn’t believe in herself enough to do it? After all, she never went much further than the little glances and temptingly interesting conversations. But he kept watch over all her words, her irrepressible enthusiasm, her smiles, her numerous “likes,” the e-mails full of evocative quotations and songs. And later, while they were reading together in their room, he’d look up from his book and shoot her an ironic look, full of rage, and it all tasted like betrayal.

She felt like she fought against herself all the time. Because he didn’t allow her to doubt. He cornered her. All or nothing. But she was imperfect, and she couldn’t give more than an imperfect love. And in the end he convinced her. What had she done first? She couldn’t remember. Did she see the Casio watch in the shop window, buy it for herself, and then go back for his? Did she buy his first and then hers? Both at the same time? Had it always been for him, or had she hesitated for a second?

Her mother tried the bathroom door, and went on jiggling the knob a bit violently until she was convinced it was locked. She knocked twice. “Everything okay?” she called from the other side of the door. Her mother was the sort who didn’t knock before coming in. The kind of mother who slept with the door open so she could hear all the sounds in the house, monitor and control every occurrence, because it was hers, her home.

She looked at herself in the fogged mirror and submerged herself again.

She’d loved him, she was sure. She was almost sure.

What else could it have been?