Shaddayy didn’t post a single photo for three days.
No stories.
No comments.
No art.
Nothing.
Her profile went still.
Like a breath held too long.
Her friends noticed.
💬 Camila:
—Are you okay?
💬 Lucía:
—You haven’t posted in days. Did something happen?
💬 Mía:
—Was it because of what that guy said?
Shaddayy didn’t reply.
She left the messages unread.
Not out of anger.
But because she didn’t know how to explain the hollow space in her chest.
She didn’t want to talk about Leonardo.
But she couldn’t deny it:
Since his last comment,
something in her had shifted.
It wasn’t anger.
Not sadness, either.
It was deeper.
Like a silence so loud it drowned out the world.
And the worst part?
He was gone.
No more sharp words.
No more midnight replies.
Just… absence.
🌙 In Madrid – 2:14 a.m.
Leonardo checked Shaddayy’s profile.
For the third time that night.
Her last post was still the one with the blue paint on her cheek.
The one where she wrote: "Today."
And he replied with a question that cut like glass.
He knew he’d been harsh.
Maybe too harsh.
But he didn’t regret it.
Sometimes, truth has to hurt to be heard.
And she needed to hear it.
What he didn’t expect…
Was this emptiness.
This quiet pull in his chest every time he opened Instagram.
This urge to see her name light up his screen —
Even if it was just to read: "You’re an idiot."
But she didn’t post.
She didn’t reply.
She just… disappeared.
And he missed it.
Missed her.
📅 On the Fourth Day
Shaddayy posted a story.
Just one.
A black-and-white painting.
A broken window.
A hand reaching out from one side.
Another, barely visible, reaching back.
So close.
But not touching.
No caption.
No music.
No filter.
Just the canvas.
And a title at the bottom:
"Close, but not close enough."
She didn’t expect him to see it.
Didn’t want him to see it.
But 17 minutes later…
A notification.
Not a comment.
Not a DM.
Just a like.
From Leonardo.
Shaddayy stared at the screen.
Blinked.
Then stared again.
Was that it?
Just a heart?
No words.
No sarcasm.
No knife.
She checked his activity.
No likes on anyone else’s posts.
Not his brother.
Not his few followers.
Only hers.
And only when it mattered.
That like…
Meant more than a thousand apologies.
💬 That night – Friend group chat
📱 Camila:
—Did you see he liked it?
📱 Mía:
—He did! After everything he said!
📱 Lucía:
—What now? Are you just going to ignore him?
Shaddayy didn’t reply.
But minutes later, she posted another story.
A steaming cup of coffee.
A napkin with handwriting:
"Today, the silence was louder than yesterday."
No mention.
No tag.
But they both knew who it was for.
And at 3:08 a.m. , another like.
From the same profile.
Gray eyes.
Shielded heart.
Still watching.
🏡 In Madrid
Andrés, his brother, saw him checking his phone again.
For the hundredth time.
“That Argentine profile again?” Andrés asked, arms crossed.
“It’s nothing,” Leo said, putting the phone down.
“Doesn’t look like anything when you stare at it like you’re waiting for a sign from the sky.”
“I’m not waiting for anything.”
“Then why keep liking her stories?”
“It’s not for her.”
“Oh? Then who?”
“It’s for me,” Leo said, eyes on the ceiling.
“To remind myself that someone, somewhere…
Is painting what I only feel.”
Andrés looked at him.
Silent.
For once, he didn’t say: "You’re crazy."
Didn’t say: "Forget her."
He just nodded.
And walked away.
✨ Final Note:
It wasn’t a message.
Wasn’t a voice note.
Wasn’t even a word.
It was a like.
A heart in the dark.
And it was enough to know that,
even if we weren’t speaking…
He was still there.
Like an echo that refuses to fade.
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