The Catfish and the Real Me

I'd been a total spy for three weeks, stalking Jake's Instagram like it was my job. Every post, every story, every random sunset pic – I analyzed it all like I was some kind of FBI agent. Pathetic? Maybe. But when you're fifteen and have the biggest crush on the cutest guy in sophomore year, dignity goes out the window.

Then came the incident. I was scrolling through his tagged photos at 2 AM when I saw it: Jake posting pics with some girl from our rival high school. Caption read 'my fox' with the heart eyes emoji. My stomach dropped. I felt like I'd been punched.

Next day at lunch, my best friend Maya caught me staring at my phone like it had personally offended me. 'You look like someone kicked your dog,' she said, sliding into the seat across from me.

'There's this girl,' I muttered, showing her the post. 'She's perfect. Gorgeous. Probably plays three sports and rescues kittens on weekends.'

Maya side-eyed me. 'Or maybe she's just a cat like everyone else on social media.'

'Cat?'

'Catfish, Sage. Remember when Emma edited her waist out of homecoming pics last year? When Jake posts this perfect girl, he's curating a fantasy. Same way you only post your good angles.'

The words hit me like a splash of cold water. I thought about my own profile – carefully chosen selfies, aesthetic study shots, never mentioning my anxiety or how I still sleep with a stuffed animal. I was playing the same game.

That weekend, I posted my first unfiltered photo: me, messy hair and oversized hoodie, captioned 'real life isn't an Instagram aesthetic.' Two minutes later, Jake liked it.

Maybe the fox wasn't so perfect after all. Maybe none of us were. And that was actually okay.