The Spy Who Was Me

Jordan hunched on the edge of the bathtub, bathroom door locked, phone clutched in a death grip. Again.

Outside, the party roared—laughter spilling under the door, bass thumping through the floor. Jordan should've been out there. Mingling. Being normal.

Instead, Jordan was playing spy for the third time that week.

Not the cool kind. The pathetic kind.

Jordan opened Instagram—fingers trembling, heart doing that weird fluttery thing—and navigated to Riley's profile. The third-most-popular girl in sophomore year. Riley, who always knew what to say. Riley, whose posts got 87 likes minimum while Jordan's hovered somewhere between "your mom liked it" and complete silence.

Studying Riley's stories was reconnaissance. Jordan took mental notes: the casual laugh-cry emoji usage. The way she captioned photos with lowercase letters, like she was too chill for proper grammar. The aesthetic inconsistency—some posts gritty and moody, others bright and candid. Like she didn't try. Like it just happened.

Jordan wanted that effortless thing. That being-yourself thing.

A notification popped up: **Riley posted a new story.**

Jordan tapped it before thinking—automatic reflex, muscle memory from weeks of observation. The screen loaded: Riley in a bathroom mirror, same as Jordan right now, making a funny face. Caption: *social anxiety battery at 3%*.

Jordan stared.

Riley? Social anxiety?

The popular girl who owned every room she walked into?

Lightning cracked outside the bathroom window—close enough that the whole house seemed to hold its breath. Thunder followed, shaking the tile floor. In the sudden quiet after, Jordan's phone buzzed.

A DM from Riley.

**riley_st:** hey I saw u on my story view u ok??

Jordan's heart stopped.

**jordannn:** yeah just hiding in the bathroom lol

**riley_st:** mood. can I come over

**jordannn:** what

**riley_st:** I said can I come over I'm also in a bathroom and I need a co-conspirator

Jordan typed: *yes*

Thirty seconds later, Riley slipped through the door, locking it behind her. She was smaller up close. Less confident somehow. She slid down the wall to sit beside Jordan, knees pulled up.

"You're Jordan, right? We have English together."

Jordan nodded. Speechless. Riley knew their name.

"I'm basically a spy, you know," Riley said, passing Jordan a bag of Skittles from her pocket. "I watch everyone. I memorize what people wear so I can wear similar stuff. I practice my laugh in the mirror until it sounds natural. It's exhausting being the girl who knows what to say."

She turned to Jordan, eyes bright.

"You're not actually spying on me, are you?"

Jordan's face burned. "Is it that obvious?"

"No," Riley said. "But you're always watching. And I noticed you noticing. And honestly? It's kind of nice being observed by someone who's trying to figure it out too."

Lightning flashed again, illuminating them both in the bathroom mirror—two girls on the floor, knees to chests, surrounded by party sounds on the other side of the door.

"Practice with me," Jordan said quietly. "We can be spies together."

Riley grinned. And for the first time all night, it looked real.