The soft blue light from her phone painted Isabel's face as she sat curled up on the edge of her bed. She scrolled slowly through her own Instagram feed, pausing here and there as if she were looking at someone else's life. The colors were warm and inviting—sunlit coffee shops, neatly arranged bookshelves, her in airy dresses on street corners that looked accidentally perfect.
Today's post was a photo of her sipping a latte at a café downtown, head tilted slightly, lips curved in a smile that suggested she'd just heard something charming. The caption read: "Mornings like these #coffeelover #simplejoys."
The truth was, it had taken twenty-seven shots to get that one "effortless" image. She had spent twenty minutes adjusting the chair so her legs looked longer, shifting the angle to hide the fold in her stomach when she leaned forward, and making sure the light softened the faint crease near her mouth. Even after that, she'd opened her editing app and smoothed out her skin, brightened her eyes, and whitened her teeth.
The likes were pouring in—little hearts, one after the other. Gorgeous!Body goals!How are you always this flawless?
She felt the familiar flicker of satisfaction… and then the hollowness that always came after. She wanted to type the truth: I'm not flawless. I don't even like my body most days. But she knew how quickly that honesty could unravel the image she'd built.
Her eyes landed on a photo from last summer—her at the beach in a flowing white dress, holding a straw hat. She remembered how miserable she'd felt that day, how she had kept the dress on to avoid showing her thighs, how she had skipped lunch so her stomach wouldn't look bloated. Yet in the comments, strangers still called her "inspirational" and "perfect."
The phone buzzed in her hand, pulling her back. A group chat notification popped up—old college friends, the ones she hadn't seen in ages. Bible study tonight? New series starting.
Isabel almost laughed aloud. The last time she had been inside a church was Easter two years ago, and even then it had been mostly for the photos. The idea of sitting in a circle with women who might want her to talk about her "heart" felt absurd.
Still, her thumb hovered over the message. She thought of how quiet her apartment was when she turned off her phone at night. How the laughter and smiles in her photos didn't follow her into the dark. How she couldn't remember the last time she'd been truly seen without feeling the need to edit herself.
She set the phone down on the bedspread, staring at the screen as the notification faded. She didn't type anything back—yet. But she didn't delete the message either.