It’s a screenshot of Layla’s Instagram, reminding her of a selfie she posted two years ago. In the photo, Layla is with a woman. They’re embracing each other, cheeks pressed together and pulling wide, silly smiles. A younger-looking Layla is wearing a floral headdress and the woman has a single sunflower behind her ear. It looks like they’re at a music festival.

‘Is this your mum?’ I ask.

‘Yes, Miss. She died a few months after that was taken.’

Her words crash into me.

‘Oh, Layla. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.’

‘She had breast cancer.’

We both pause, taking in the photograph. I notice their similar hair, long and wavy, and Layla’s mum’s nose, all crinkled because of the funny face she’s pulling.

‘I’m so pleased you showed me this, Layla. It’s very personal, but lovely to see.’

‘I took the screenshot last term, Miss,’ Layla tells me, taking back her phone and switching it off. ‘The day of the auditions. That’s when it showed up on my Instagram. I’m sorry I messed up. I just, kind of, couldn’t be bothered in the end. You know?’

I nod. I do know.

‘I WhatsApped it to my best friend,’ Layla says, speaking fast, as if she’s worried she’ll get caught spilling this information. ‘I think I wrote something like, “Can’t believe this was two years ago” and she said, “You need to stop being stuck in the past”. I was like, I’m not. And she was like, you are. She said, “The past is gone”.’

The harshness in Layla’s interpretation of her best friend’s words is like venom from a snake. She blinks away tears by gazing at the sky and fluttering her lashes, a trick she seems too well-practised at.

‘I thought she was wrong, Miss. So I posted the photo again, you know, as a memory. It made me happy for like, a minute or something, ’cause it was like my mum was alive again and I had the chance to post a picture of me and her together. Then, I checked my Instagram later that day and only a few people had liked it. I checked again later, and still, hardly any likes. And I’m not like a huge attention seeker or anything, Miss. I just got really confused.’

‘Why’s that, Layla?’

‘’Cause did you see how many likes the original post got? The real one? More than two years ago? Miss, look … It got two hundred and twenty-three likes.’

‘Wow. That’s a lot!’

Layla shakes her head, a cynical laugh escaping her.

‘No, Miss. That’s not a lot. A hundred thousand plus is a lot.’

‘Did you expect to get that many likes?’