"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.
But on the third day, when she uploaded a new photo, she searched for his name before anyone else's.
It was a picture of her in her art studio — hands covered in paint, standing in front of a dark canvas.
Caption:
"Today, colour didn't come. But I kept trying."
Her friends replied quickly:
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.
But it didn't last long.
There he was.
Again.
Leonardo: "Kept trying." What if what you need isn't more paint… but a mirror?
Shaddayy gripped her phone.
Again?
Him again.
With his cold Spanish sarcasm.
His words like knives.
She replied without thinking:
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.
He didn't answer.
Not in the comments.
But at 2 a.m., his profile updated.
Leonardo posted his first public photo :
A black-and-white shot of graffiti on a wall in Madrid.
Broken letters. Chaotic lines.
Below it, a caption:
"Art isn't pretty. It's truth. And the truth hurts."
No tags.
No mentions.
But Shaddayy knew it was for her.
She opened his profile.
Stared at the image.
And without realizing it, 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 stared at the screen.
She didn't know what to say.
Because deep down…
She knew he was right.
But she wouldn't admit it.
Shaddayy: One thing, Leonardo: if you hate what I do so much… why are you still here?
The reply took longer than expected.
Minutes.
Hours.
Just before dawn, it came:
Leonardo: Because you're the only one who answers.
And the only one who paints like the world has broken her.
Just like me.
Shaddayy lowered her phone.
Said nothing.
Didn't reply.
But she didn't block him.
Didn't report him.
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.
"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 replied. "Do you realize you've never responded to anyone else like this?"
Shaddayy put her phone away.
"I don't like him."
"Then why keep talking to him?"
She didn't answer.
Because she didn't have a clear reason.
She only knew one thing:
When he didn't show up…
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.