I guess it was easier to boss me around back in the day, because I did, and then forgot about it until I woke up the next morning. I’d usually gotten ten, maybe fifteen likes on my landscape photos. When I checked my phone, I had seventy-eight, and it went up to ninety-three through the day. Along with comments—which foundation was I using? Were my eyelashes real? Could I post a tutorial? With each like a piece of my heart felt glued back together. With each comment a little bit of my emptiness evaporated. I didn’t have to be this insipid, sad girl. Not anymore. I could build myself up to exactly who I wanted to be, one post at a time.

I never thought back then that a picture on Instagram would lead to everything I had today. That I would finally build my empire around it.

I know that everyone and their grandmother has an opinion on social media—how it’s “fake” or “performative.” Well, I’ll just ask you one thing: What part of life isn’t performative? From the image an intern portrays at work to be taken more seriously, to the beggar on the street who pretends to have varying ailments to extract some change for the day’s meal, everyone is playing a part. Props to anyone who’s managed to monetize it.

I checked the time. Damn it.

I was going to be late for my sari jacket fitting. I had just selected my outfit when my phone beeped.

We need to talk. Call me.

Fuck this bullshit. Seriously. Like I didn’t have enough on my mind.

But still, I was about to dial when I heard my mother’s shouts travel up the stairs.

Really, woman? For someone who’s always on my case about keeping up appearances, she regularly managed to pull some ridiculous, dramatic bullshit in front of her annoying friends.

I sighed. I’d better go out there and do some damage control.

I guess it wasn’t the worst thing. I looked great in this not-trying-at-all, five-hundred-dollar robe, and it’ll be nice to have one more chance at showing it off.

I went down the stairs, ready to smooth over whatever it was my mother was on about when I saw Amaya.

I couldn’t believe it. This was certainly not good. I guess I could understand my mother’s hysterics now, but I didn’t have the luxury of reacting. Those aunties were watching us like animals marking their prey. They would love a dramatic scene, wouldn’t they? Something they could call their gossiping friends about and have a good old chin-wag, all at the expense of my mother. No way I was giving them that satisfaction.

“I invited her,” I said to my mother. Thankfully, that shut her up.

I had to admit, I was curious as to why the hell she’d suddenly rocked up after lord knows how many years. Maybe she thinks I was backstabbing her by marrying her ex, but hey, she screwed me over first. I hope she doesn’t decide to tell anyone about how she dated Spence. That’ll really mess things up for me.