"They see kilometres. We see every message as one step closer."
Shaddayy didn't post a single photo for three days.
No stories.
No comments.
Nothing.
Her friends started to worry.
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 didn't want to talk about Leonardo.
But she couldn't deny that, since reading his last comment,
something in her chest had stopped beating normally.
It wasn't anger.
Not sadness, either.
It was like she couldn't breathe.
Like the world had gone silent.
And the worst silence of all was this:
he was gone.
In Madrid, at 2:14 a.m.
Leonardo checked Shaddayy's profile.
For the third time that night.
Her last post was still the one from the sunset — blue paint on her cheek.
And their comments…
The battle lost.
He knew he'd been harsh.
Maybe too harsh.
But he didn't regret it.
Sometimes, the truth hurts.
And she needed to hear it.
What he didn't expect was this.
This emptiness.
This urge to open Instagram and check if there was something new.
This desire for her to write again —
even if it was just to insult him.
But she didn't.
On the Fourth Day
Shaddayy posted a story.
Just one.
A black-and-white painting: a broken window, a hand reaching out, trying to touch another on the other side.
No caption.
No music.
Just the canvas.
And the title:
"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 message.
A like.
From Leonardo .
Shaddayy stared at the screen.
Blinked.
Was that it?
Just a simple heart?
"Maybe it was random," she thought.
"Maybe he didn't even see it. Maybe he just liked everything."
But she checked.
No.
He didn't like anyone else's posts.
Not his friends.
Not even his brother.
Only hers.
And only when it mattered .
And that like…
Meant more than a thousand words.
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 a new story:
a steaming cup of coffee, with a phrase written on the napkin:
"Today, the silence was louder than yesterday."
She didn't mention anyone.
But they both knew who it was for.
And at 3:08 a.m., another like.
From the same profile.
The one with gray eyes and a shielded heart.
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 nothing 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 in silence.
For the first time, 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.
It wasn't a voice note.
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.