I check my phone’s notifications, which are overflowing. Sure enough, buried among emoji-laden texts, an avalanche of Instagram likes, and an email from Helen, are three missed calls from our parents. It’s not even 8 a.m.

“You’re taking the photo down, right?” Sophie asks.

It’s clear she doesn’t really mean it as a question. Because Sophie is five years older than me, she’s convinced that she’s right about everything.

“I’ll call you back,” I say, hanging up before she can protest.

I stare at my phone, scrolling through the endless stream of praise. I’m amazed at how many people think I’m actually engaged, but even more so, I’m surprised by how positive the reactions are. People are happy that I appear happy. Nobody knows how crushed and alone I felt last night. America is a sick place in which girls still grow up thinking that getting someone to fall in love with them is some kind of achievement. I know it’s not, because I see that anyone can fall in love at any time; it’s not like Holden deserves to be in love, and yet, he is. It’s unfair that we give relationships such importance; I can’t even begin to count how many Thanksgiving dinners I sat through during which Aunt Linda asked about my love life instead of, oh, I don’t know, the business I was building. I recognize that I’m not totally innocent here—selling engagement rings as a dream luxury item means that I’m part of the problem. If only people saw what I see now: I might look “engaged,” but instead of feeling happy, I feel hungover, defensive, and panicked.

My phone buzzes with an incoming email. It’s a Google Alert for the shop. We’re mentioned in a story on a wedding blog that trumpets the news: cofounder Eliza Roth—yours truly—is engaged. “While nothing is known about the mystery man quite yet, one thing is clear: he knows how to pick out a rock,” it says. Within minutes, there’s a rush of new followers on Instagram. Judging from their profile pictures—mostly engagement photos with their significant others—they must have seen the story. I want to be happy about the good publicity; any press is cause for celebration, and this site is massively popular. But instead, I only feel panic creeping up my chest and closing in around my throat.