The Art of Not Caring

I'd been lowkey stalking Marcus's socials for three weeks when my best friend Priya finally called me out. "You're literally a spy at this point," she said, scrolling through my phone at our sleepover. "Just DM him already."

"It's not that simple," I protested, though she wasn't wrong. I'd memorized his post times, his friends, even his golden retriever's name (Max, obviously). The dog appeared in half his photos - always smiling, always living his best life.

"What's the worst that could happen?" Priya asked. "He doesn't respond? Then you move on."

Easier said than done. Marcus was different from the guys at our school. He posted about politics and climate change, didn't flex with fake designer stuff, and seemed genuinely interested in the world. But maybe that was just his curated persona. Maybe I was falling for some aesthetic.

"You're overthinking again," Priya said. "Just say hey."

I stared at his latest story - Max the dog wearing a rainbow bandana for Pride. "What if he thinks I'm weird? What if this is all bull and he's actually awful in person?"

"Then you'll know," Priya said simply. "But you'll never know if you don't try."

That night, I finally did it. "hey, your dog is cute," I typed, then added, "also liked your post about climate justice.""