The photos are gone.
Every last smiling, carefully filtered moment with Liam has been wiped from my Instagram feed like we never existed at all. My grid is clean now, a blank slate that somehow feels more honest than all those curated lies I'd been posting for months. But even as the last traces of our relationship disappear from my profile, my phone won't stop buzzing with the relentless ping of notifications.
Because the internet never forgets. And high school students are bloodthirsty sharks who can smell drama from miles away.
I wake up to my phone vibrating against my nightstand like an angry wasp, the screen lit up with a cascade of alerts that make my stomach drop before I'm even fully conscious. By morning, screenshots of my deleted posts are everywhere—saved and reshared by people I barely know, dissected frame by frame like evidence in some criminal trial.
Group chats I'm not even part of are discussing my humiliation in real time. TikTok accounts with names like @DramaAlert and @TeaSpiller have already posted compilation videos with titles like "INFLUENCER GETS CHEATED ON WITH HER SISTER?" The local Sacramento gossip Instagram page that usually focuses on homecoming drama and who's dating who has made my heartbreak their lead story.
My hands shake as I scroll through the carnage, each notification feeling like a physical blow.
@SacTownSeniors:Did you guys hear about Avery Lane? Her UCLA prince turned out to be a total fraud. Apparently caught him with her own sister. I'm DECEASED.
@DramaCentral:The plot twist nobody saw coming. He upgraded from the little sister to the college one. The audacity is unmatched.
@TeaTime916:Screenshots in my stories. This is messier than any Netflix show. I feel bad for her but also... the content writes itself.
The comments sections are even worse. Hundreds of laughing emojis, snake symbols, fire icons. Users I've never interacted with sharing their hot takes about my personal life like it's a reality TV show designed for their entertainment.
LMAOOOO can't relate to getting sister-snatched.Sis really got Madison'd and that's on periodt.Plot twist: maybe she wasn't as perfect as her feed made it seem.This is why you don't date older guys. They always have options.
Each comment feels like a slap across the face. The emojis somehow sting worse than the actual words—all those crying-laughing faces turning my genuine pain into a punchline, reducing the worst moment of my life to meme material.
My follower count, which I'd worked so hard to build over the past two years, starts ticking downward. Slowly at first, just a few people here and there, but then faster as the story spreads and people decide they don't want to be associated with whatever mess I've become. The numbers that used to validate my worth now feel like a countdown to social extinction.
I don't even know who leaked the story in the first place. Maybe it was one of the students in the dorm hallway who witnessed Liam's public evisceration of my heart. Maybe it was Madison herself, orchestrating the whole narrative to maximize my humiliation. At this point, it doesn't matter. The damage is done, and it's spreading like wildfire through every social platform I've ever used.
When I finally force myself to get dressed and drag my battered self-esteem to school, the hallways buzz with an energy that's different from the usual Monday morning lethargy. Conversations pause when I walk past, heads turning to follow my progress like I'm some kind of celebrity. But not the good kind. The kind that's famous for all the wrong reasons.
Zoey is already waiting at my locker when I arrive, her pink hair catching the fluorescent lights as she leans against the metal door with her arms crossed. Her expression is fierce, protective, like a guard dog ready to bite anyone who gets too close.
"Don't look at your phone," she says before I can even speak. "Just—don't. I know you want to, but trust me, it's not worth it."
Too late. I'm already pulling out my phone, shoving the screen toward her so she can see the latest round of notifications lighting up my lock screen. "It's everywhere, Zo. Everyone knows."
She takes my phone and grimaces at what she sees, her jaw tightening as she scrolls through the comments. "People are absolute vultures. They live for this kind of drama because their own lives are boring."
"Drama." The word tastes bitter in my mouth as I slam my locker shut with more force than necessary, the metallic clang echoing down the hallway. "That's what they think this is? Some kind of show put on for their entertainment?"
Her lips press into a thin line, and I can see the anger burning in her eyes on my behalf. "To them, yeah. It's all just hashtags and screenshots and tea to spill. They don't see you as a real person with real feelings. You're just content."
The word hits me like a physical blow. Content. That's what my heartbreak has become—raw material for other people's social media engagement, fuel for the gossip mill that keeps high school society running.
We walk down the hall together, but Zoey's presence doesn't provide the usual buffer against unwanted attention. If anything, having her there makes it more obvious that something is wrong, that I need protection from the circling vultures disguised as my classmates.
Heads swivel to track our movement like we're participants in some twisted parade. Phones tilt at angles that make it clear people are recording my walk of shame, probably already crafting captions about how "broken" I look or how "karma" has finally caught up to me. The whispers aren't even discrete anymore—some people are talking loud enough that they clearly want me to overhear.
"Did you see those screenshots? The sister really went there." "Honestly, I always thought she was trying too hard with that whole perfect relationship thing." "Poor thing. But also, like, how do you not see that coming?" "Maybe now she'll post some real content instead of all that fake couple stuff."
My cheeks burn with humiliation, heat creeping up my neck and across my face until I feel like I'm glowing with shame. My chest feels too tight, like someone's wrapped rubber bands around my ribs and is slowly pulling them tighter. Every step down the hallway feels heavier than the last, like I'm walking through quicksand.
By the time I make it through the school day and drag myself home, all I want to do is crawl under my covers and hibernate until this whole nightmare blows over. But the internet doesn't pause for personal breakdowns, and the notifications keep coming like digital daggers to an already wounded heart.
My follower count continues its steady decline. Brands that used to slide into my DMs with collaboration offers have gone radio silent—probably reconsidering any association with someone whose personal life has become such a public mess. A partnership email I'd been excited about sits unread in my inbox, likely already rescinded now that my "brand" has become synonymous with humiliation.
I'm scrolling through the latest wave of mocking comments when I see something that makes my blood freeze in my veins.
A new post. From Madison.
She's sitting in some sleek downtown café that I recognize from her usual haunts, the kind of place where a single latte costs more than most people spend on lunch. Her iced drink sits perfectly positioned next to her manicured hand, the lighting hitting her platinum hair in a way that makes it look like spun gold. Her lips are curved in that same smug, satisfied smile she's been weaponizing since we were kids—the expression of someone who's just won a game everyone else didn't even know they were playing.
She looks flawless, of course. Like a lifestyle influencer modeling the perfect Sunday afternoon, completely unbothered by the destruction she's left in her wake.
But it's the caption that makes my throat close up completely, that sends ice water rushing through my veins.
"Upgrade. ✨"
Two words. That's all it takes to twist the knife she already planted in my back.
The comments section explodes instantly, like she's thrown gasoline on a fire that was already consuming my reputation.
OMG she really went there. The audacity is unmatched.Queen Madison strikes again. She said what she said.Savage level: expert. I live for this energy.The sister really said "this one's mine now" and I respect it.Upgrade is right. College girl > high school girl every time.
I drop my phone onto my bed like it's burned my fingers, but I can still hear the notification sounds continuing to ping as more people discover the post and add their own commentary to the growing pile of digital cruelty.
My sister didn't just steal my boyfriend. She didn't just destroy the relationship I thought was going to last forever. She didn't even just break my heart in the most public, humiliating way possible.
She's proud of it. She wants the entire world to know exactly what she did and how little she cares about the collateral damage. She's turning my pain into her triumph, my heartbreak into her moment in the spotlight.
And the world—my world, our world, the cruel ecosystem of social media and high school gossip—is absolutely eating it up.