I never wanted to be this girl. The kind who scrolls, searching for strangers like detectives search for killers. I type her name into the void, press enter, and wait for her body to teach me what mine apparently could not. What did she have? What did she give?What smile cracked you open in a way my laughter never reached? I study their pages like textbooks skin, teeth, curves, small captions that turn into sermons. I grade myself against women who never knew they were being tested. And I hate it. Hate that I can’t unsee their bodies draped across your history. Hate that I turn them into enemies when in another life we’d have been friends, trading stories over coffee, loving each other’s joy. Instead, I sharpen them into blades against my own throat. And you let me. You wrote “I love you” with one hand and scrolled with the other. You kissed me goodbye, then went looking for something to kiss hello. And I wonder if you even remember which lie came first,or if they all taste the same to you now. Because here I am, with the space between us growing, and I can’t tell anymore if I built it out of my own doubt and jealousy or if you hollowed it out with every new name, every new body you left for me to stumble on. This is not who I am. But it is who I’ve become with you. A girl pulling threads from strangers’ lives to stitch back a self worth you unraveled. A girl building walls of resentment around women who never knew my name, never deserved my rage. I don’t want to be her. But tell me how do I stop comparing myself to ghosts you keep alive? How do I unlearn the habit of chasing answers on screens that never speak back?