But as my online presence grew, the distance between my parents and me also grew. They were born in a different generation, one where marriages were strictly arranged and no cell phones existed, let alone social media.

‘Life is out there, Jhanvi,’ my father would say, when I sat cooped up in my room, scrolling through profiles for hours. ‘Why don’t you go out and make some friends? Try and socialise a little bit?’ I would inevitably roll my eyes and make empty promises to spend more time at friends’ houses. He didn’t understand that, these days, you made friends online.

For me, the pressure to be perfect was very real. To my parents, I was already perfect. It became more and more difficult for me to communicate to them the strains I was under. Eventually, I gave up altogether, preferring to hide behind the LCD screen in my hand.

‘Excuse me,’ a young girl said, standing in front of me. ‘Are you her?’ The girl, fifteen or sixteen years old, pointed at her phone. The screen was filled with small squares of me smiling outside designer stores with Puneet’s arm around me.

‘Yes. Would you like a selfie together?’ I asked. I knew I didn’t look my best, but consoled myself that the girl probably didn’t have a very large following.

‘Yes, please!’ she squealed. ‘My friend and I think you are so beautiful. We saw you at The Gateway, but you were busy with your boyfriend. Puneet? If you look in the background there, you will see us!’

I smiled, desperately wanting to tell these girls that my life was not as perfect as it appeared. Instead, I pulled them in close, directing them on how to place their chin and which was the right way to stand to capitalise on the afternoon sun. The girls lapped up my advice, promising to use it every time they took a photo, before hugging me and walking away, heads down as they watched their screens for likes.

Shaking off the dark thoughts that had begun to cloud my mind again, I set off to where I had been heading before the girls interrupted me. In front of me lay stalls of flowers in every colour imaginable. Because I was wearing blue, I found a stall with predominantly yellow flowers and pulled my phone out of my bag. Hitting the camera icon, I fixed my hair. Face angled, hair perfect, I took ten shots before scrolling through them to see if any of my captures were workable. I settled on one shot; I had a slight smile, and the sun caught my dark eyes perfectly and created a halo above my brown hair. ‘I’ll have to filter this,’ I thought. Putting my phone back in my bag, I made my way back to the bus stop.

The bus was crowded. People were standing near the door, fighting for space, worried that they would not have enough time to get off at their next stop. I looked towards the back of the bus; a man in a black suit was sitting there. His legs were spread, and he was taking up far more space than he should have been doing. I pushed my way through the crowd, trying to keep my balance as the bus stopped and started through the traffic. I sat down forcefully, pushing the man’s legs back out of my space. His face was buried deep in some documentation, and he didn’t respond. Taking out my phone, I opened my usual filter app. Uploading the picture I took at the flower market, I started playing with its adjustments; face thinner, lights amplified, skin flawless. When I was satisfied with the results, I uploaded it to my account. Instantly, my screen begins to fill up with hearts. I sighed; at least my followers were loyal.