Who Does He Think He Is?"

“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.

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