"The Fight Was a Language"

"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.

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