You didn’t plan to send Kyle a nude.

It just… happened. Like a feminist impulse. A power move.

He hadn’t messaged back for three days — even after you’d responded to his “wyd” with a perfectly curated thirst trap from two summers ago. You know your angles. You know your value.

So you stood in the bathroom mirror, stomach slightly sucked in, chin tilted just right, and snapped one last one on impulse. Artful. Empowered. Flash on. Emotionally charged but casual. Sent it with the caption:

“Your loss.”

Then you blocked him.

Boom. Justice served. You are woman. He is deleted. The system works.

You throw your phone on the bed like a mic drop and strut to the kitchen victorious... where you then open your laptop and immediately open Instagram and pretend to be too busy for this pain.

Except…

Why does your chest feel tight?

You sit down. Scroll. Scroll harder. Reels, reels, reels. A dog on a skateboard. Someone making a smoothie in Bali. A girl doing “what I eat in a day” and somehow none of it is food.

But the scroll doesn’t numb it.

It’s not that you wanted to see Kyle. Of course not. He was an abuser for sure, a creep, and a weirdo. But… you did just send a naked photo to someone who didn’t ask for it and then blocked him like you were winning something.

You sip your now-cold oat latte and stare at your reflection in the black screen.

You are strong. You are independent. You are also kind of spiraling.

You decide that's enough internet for today. Time to finally get started with your day, hell, it's already almost 4 pm!