Just outside my empty office I could hear the cackles and jeers of my colleagues drinking in the pub downstairs—their fun floating up through the open windows. Nobody wanted to be at their desk when the weather was this glorious. It was the first proper hot day of the year, and, predictably, everyone in my team had hurtled outside at 5:00 p.m., sunburning their noses, and guzzling pink cider poured onto ice. Derek had tried to drag me down with them. “Come on, we should celebrate the traction on your Freud coping strategies listicle,” he’d said, but I’d pretended I needed to finish my stats report. It lay open on my browser, obscured by the engagement picture. My counseling series kept exceeding expectations, but that achievement meant nothing compared to Tiffany’s on the screen before me.

A wave of laughter thrummed through the window. I leaned forward, putting my face as close to Tiffany’s digital one as possible. Was she prettier than me? She was definitely younger than me, but only in that photo. In truth, out there in the world, she was two years older than me. But part of what made me so sick was how young and pretty she looked in this image. Her teeth white and straight, no creases around her eyes, camera held at the perfect angle to give her a good jaw, when I knew, from stalking all her other pictures, her jaw was actually quite square. I spent more time torturing myself with how pretty she was than on examining how happy Ben looked, although that was next on my agenda. This woman, smiling out at me, with everything I’ve ever wanted, spent so much time in my thoughts. Sometimes I even dressed for her. I’d pick out an outfit with her in mind—wanting to out-better and outdo, in case we ever bumped into one another, or if she ever stalked me back. Sometimes I dieted for her too. Every time I stood to one side and bent an elbow in a photo for my socials to make my arm look slimmer, it was for Tiffany. Look at me, winning the thin-arm war, you bitch I’ve never actually met.

Did Tiffany ever stalk me back?

It would be so totally typical if she didn’t—if Ben’s ex never once wondered about who he moved on to. Would make it such a giant power imbalance—my obsession compared to her total chosen ignorance of my existence.