“Sometimes, the harshest comment is the first door that love opens.”

Shaddayy uploaded the photo.

Her heart raced.

A deep breath.

Click.

There she was.

Smiling.

In a soft blue dress, like a spring sky.

Sitting on a wooden bench in Rivadavia Park.

Behind her, a pink sunset painted the horizon like a dream.

Caption:

Today I felt beautiful. For the first time in weeks.

Posted.

And within seconds, the notifications began to flood in.

💬 Camila:

—You're stunning, Shayy! Where did you get that dress?

💬 Lucía:

—That glow! The sunset did you justice.

💬 Mía:

—It's like the universe smiled at you today. Don’t ever forget that.

Shaddayy smiled.

A quiet, real smile.

Not forced.

Not fake.

It was little.

But it was something.

At home, no one ever said these words to her.

Not even her mother.

Just long silences, cold stares, and comments like:

—You don’t need more clothes. You already have too many.

—Smile less. It looks like you’re begging for attention.

But here, in that photo, for a moment…

She felt seen.

Until he appeared.

A comment.

Below the others.

Cold.

Sharp.

Like a blade slicing through petals.

💬 Leonardo:

—“Beautiful”? Seriously? Looks like the sunset is crying over your filter choice.

Shaddayy frowned.

What?

She reread the message.

No joke.

No laughter. No emojis. No followers.

Just sharp words.

Profile:

📷 No photo. Just a black background.

👤 Leonardo M.

📍 Madrid, Spain

👥 Followers: 7

📌 Posts: 0

—Who does he think he is? —she muttered, gripping her phone.

She fired back without thinking:

💬 Shaddayy:

—And who are you to talk? King of empty profiles? At least I have something to show. You’ve got a black screen… and a dirty mouth.

She turned off her phone.

Lay down.

But couldn’t sleep.

Why did a stranger’s words hurt so much?

Why did his comment echo louder than her friends’ compliments?

⏳ Five days later

Shaddayy uploaded another photo.

This time, not of herself.

A painting.

A butterfly trapped inside a raindrop.

Wings folded.

Eyes still.

As if waiting.

Caption:

Sometimes, beauty is born from confinement.

💬 Camila:

—This is your best work yet. It gives me chills.

💬 Lucía:

—You should exhibit this. Seriously.

💬 Mía:

—The butterfly is you. And one day… the drop will break.

Shaddayy smiled.

For a moment, she felt…

Understood.

Until he returned.

💬 Leonardo:

—” Beauty is born from confinement.” How deep. Did you get that from a coffee cup or a cheap self-help book?

Her blood boiled.

💬 Shaddayy:

—If you don’t understand art, maybe you shouldn’t talk. Or do you just come here to ruin people’s days?

Silence.

He didn’t reply.

But that night…

Shaddayy opened his profile.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Why did he only show up to bother her ?

Why didn’t he comment on anyone else’s posts?

Why only appear when she shared something real ?

📅 One week later

Shaddayy posted a story.

Just a coffee cup.

And a napkin with shaky handwriting:

Today, I’m not okay. But I’m still here.

That was it.

No filters.

No smile.

Just the truth.

Hours passed.

Then…

A notification.

📩 Direct Message.

From him.

💬 Leonardo:

—What if “still here” isn’t enough?

What if you need more than coffee?

Shaddayy stared at the screen.

She didn’t reply.

Didn’t block him.

She just…

Saved the message.

Because, as much as she hated him…

He was the only one who saw her

when she pretended to be fine.

And that…

Was dangerous.

Maybe he wasn’t the enemy.

Maybe…

He was someone broken, too.

And he recognized her.

“I hate your comments. But I'd hate it more if you stopped making them.”

Shaddayy blocked Leonardo the next day.

Without hesitation.

One quick tap. Teeth clenched.

—Enough — she said out loud, as if the walls could hear her.

She needed silence.

Space.

To forget the sting of his words.

To stop checking his profile every night.

But that afternoon…

She uploaded a new photo.

Herself by the river.

Wearing a red scarf.

Wind tangling her hair like a storm.

Eyes fixed on the horizon, as if searching for something — or someone.

Caption:

Today, the world doesn’t understand me. But I keep going.

She posted it.

Waited.

When she checked the comments…

He wasn’t there.

No message.

No sarcasm.

No cold remark.

Nothing.

For just a second…

Her chest ached.

She missed it.

Missed him.

Missed the way he always showed up right when she showed herself.

—What’s wrong with me? —she whispered, shaking her head.

⏳ Three days later

Shaddayy posted a short video.

Her hands painting.

Fingers smeared with colour.

A swirl of blues, deep reds, and gold — chaos turning into something beautiful.

In the background: a sad Spanish song.

On her grandmother used to play.

About love lost, and love waiting.

No caption.

No explanation.

Just art.

Raw.

Real.

Two hours passed.

Then…

A notification.

Not a comment.

A mention.

💬 @maria_art_lover:

—Shayy, beautiful! Where do you get all this inspiration?

💬 @lucia_en_paris:

—This blue is hypnotic.

💬 @leonardo_madrid:

—If it weren’t for the unnecessary drama in your captions, I might actually say you have talent.

Shaddayy froze.

Again?

But… she’d blocked him.

She opened his profile fast.

Scrolled.

No.

He wasn’t blocked.

She’d only silenced notifications.

A fake block.

A lie she told herself.

He’d never stopped watching her.

And she…

Had never stopped hoping he would.

Furious — or maybe just scared — she replied:

💬 Shaddayy:

—Don’t talk to me again. Don’t you understand what “blocking” means?

💬 Leonardo:

—Technically, you didn’t block me. You just pretended to. Interesting.

She threw her phone onto the bed.

—He’s unbearable!

🍽️ That night – Dinner table

“So… what about that guy who always comments on your photos?” Camila, her sister, asked, cutting her meat.

"What guy?” Shaddayy replied, not looking up.

“The one from Spain. Leonardo. Don’t you realize he only talks to you ? No one else replies to him.”

“He’s an idiot,” Shaddayy said. “He only shows up to ruin everything.”

Lucas, her older brother, leaned forward.

“If he were a stalker, you'd have reported him by now. But you haven't.”

“Because he's not a stalker!”

"Then why does he bother you so much?” Camila asked. “Or… do you like him?"

"Of course not!" Shaddayy snapped — too fast.

Too loud.

She stood up.

Left the room.

🌙 Later, in her room

She opened Instagram.

Went straight to Leonardo’s profile.

He was online.

Right now.

And he’d just posted his first public photo.

A bridge in Madrid.

Rain falling in silver threads.

Lights blurred by the wet glass.

Location:

Puente de los Suspiros — Bridge of Sighs.

No caption.

Just silence.

Shaddayy searched the name.

"They say if you cross this bridge thinking of someone… that person will appear in your life."

Her heart beat faster.

Before she could stop herself, she commented:

💬 Shaddayy:

—What if you thought of someone… and they never appear?

She didn’t expect a reply.

Five minutes later, it came:

💬 Leonardo:

—Then maybe they're already here.

You just don't know it yet.

✨ Final Note:

I never knew who he was thinking of that night.

But ever since, every time I cross a bridge,

I wait for him to appear…

Even if it’s just to annoy me again.

"I hate your comments. But I'd hate it more if you stopped making them."

Shaddayy didn’t reply to his last comment.

Didn’t even look at it.

She told herself she was done.

That his words didn’t matter.

That she didn’t care.

But on the third day…

When she uploaded a new photo…

She searched for his name before anyone else’s.

Not Camila.

Not Mía.

Not even her own caption.

Just Leonardo.

The comment section opened.

Her heart beat once.

Twice.

And there he was.

Again.

The photo was from her art studio.

Shaddayy, barefoot.

Hands stained with paint.

Standing in front of a dark, unfinished canvas.

No colour. No light. Just silence.

Caption:

Today, colour didn’t come. But I kept trying.

💬 Camila:

—Your canvas looks amazing, even if you say it doesn’t!

💬 Lucía:

—Your art in motion.

💬 Mía:

—One day, the world will see what we already see.

Shaddayy smiled.

A small, fragile thing.

But it didn’t last.

Because then…

He appeared.

💬 Leonardo:

—“Kept trying.” What if what you need isn’t more paint… but a mirror?

Shaddayy gripped her phone.

Again?

Him again.

With that cold, sharp voice.

That Spanish sarcasm like broken glass.

Words that cut deeper than they should.

💬 Shaddayy:

—What do you know about art? You only criticize from the shadows. Do you have anything of your own, or are you just a parasite of other people’s creativity?

Silence.

No reply.

Not in the comments.

Not that night.

But at 2 a.m. , his profile updated.

Leonardo posted his first public photo.

A black-and-white shot.

Graffiti on a cracked wall in Madrid.

Letters half-erased.

Lines like scars.

Chaos turned into meaning.

Below it, a single line:

“Art isn't pretty. It's truth. And the truth hurts.”

No tags.

No mentions.

No drama.

But Shaddayy knew.

It was for her .

She stared at the image.

Longer than she should have.

Then, without thinking, she commented:

💬 Shaddayy:

—What if your “truth” is just an excuse to be rude?

💬 Leonardo:

—What if your “art” is just an excuse to be seen?

💬 Shaddayy:

—I'd rather be seen than live in a void like you.

💬 Leonardo:

—I'd rather live in the void than pretend I'm understood.

💬 Shaddayy:

—No one understands you because you won’t let them.

💬 Leonardo:

—And you? How many really see what you're truly painting?

Shaddayy froze.

The screen blurred.

Because deep down…

She knew he was right.

She painted not for the world.

But for someone to finally see her.

And he…

He tore down walls not to destroy, but because he lived behind one too.

She didn’t reply.

But she didn’t block him.

Didn’t report.

Didn’t scroll away.

She just…

Saved the comment.

Like it was a confession

dressed as a fight.

🌆 The next day – At university

“Are you still fighting with that guy on Instagram?” Mía asked, laughing over coffee.

"He's not funny,” Shaddayy said. “He's an idiot.”

"But you fight with him every day."

"Because he won't shut up!"

"And you won't either," Mía said, tilting her head. "Do you realize you've never responded to anyone else like this?"

Shaddayy looked away.

Put her phone face down.

"I don't like him."

"Then why keep talking to him?"

She didn’t answer.

Because she didn’t have a reason.

Not one she could say out loud.

But she knew one thing:

When he didn’t show up…

When his name didn’t appear in her notifications…

She found herself wondering:

"Where is he?"

✨ Final Note:

I didn’t know those fights weren’t war.

They were the twisted way

two broken souls learned to speak to each other.

Without knowing.

Without wanting to.

But without being able to stop.