Chapter 2

I sit in my car and open our old messages.

Not Tyler's real account.

The private Instagram account he gave me before leaving for Sweden.

Now that I know one of his teammates has been behind it the entire time, everything suddenly makes sense.

At the beginning, the replies were terrible.

Short.

Cold.

Exactly like Tyler.

**How's Sweden?**

**Fine.**

**Did you eat?**

**Yeah.**

Sometimes I send three messages and get one word back.

Sometimes he leaves me on read for days.

I never question it.

Tyler has never been good at texting.

Even when we're together, he'll ignore his phone for hours.

So I keep messaging him.

I send pictures of my lunch.

Complain about classes.

Tell him when I can't sleep.

Tell him when I miss him.

I do most of the talking.

Then one night, after he leaves me on read again, I finally type something I immediately regret.

**I know I'm annoying.**

I stare at the message for a full minute.

Then I send another.

**I just miss you.**

And then:

**Please don't be mad at me, okay?**

An hour passes.

I lie in bed staring at my phone, already embarrassed.

Then the screen lights up.

**You're not annoying.**

I sit up.

Another message appears.

**I'm sorry. I'll do better.**

I remember reading those words over and over.

Because Tyler has never apologized to me like that before.

After that night, everything changes.

The account starts replying faster.

He reminds me when I have early classes.

He asks if I made it home.

He remembers that my stomach hurts around my period.

If I tell him I haven't eaten all day, he gets mad.

Once, I send him a picture of a coffee and tell him it's basically breakfast.

He replies immediately.

**No, it isn't. Go eat something.**

I laugh when I read it.

I even save the message.

At the time, I think Tyler is finally starting to care about me.

Then I reach my birthday.

Tyler's real account doesn't send me anything.

No post.

No text.

Not even a stupid emoji.

I spend the whole night pretending I don't care.

Then at exactly midnight, the private account sends me a message.

**Happy birthday, Stella.**

A second one follows.

**I hope this year is kinder to you.**

Then:

**And I hope you stop being so hard on yourself.**

I remember crying.

Not because I was sad.

Because I thought Tyler had finally seen me.

Really seen me.

That night is also when I decide I'm going to lose weight.

I tell myself that if Tyler is finally trying, then I should try too.

Maybe if I get prettier, he'll stop hiding me.

Maybe if I lose enough weight, he'll finally introduce me as his girlfriend.

Maybe when he comes home, everything will be different.

My throat tightens.

I scroll farther.

Morning messages.

Good-night messages.

Reminders to eat.

Random pictures.

Stupid jokes.

Every soft thing I spent a year collecting like proof that Tyler loved me.

None of it came from Tyler.

Not one word.

I grip my phone tighter.

God.

How pathetic was I?

I spent a year changing my entire body for a man who couldn't even be bothered to answer me himself.

And somewhere out there, one of his teammates has been pretending to be him.

I should be furious.

I am furious.

But beneath the anger, something else keeps bothering me.

Why did he keep doing it?

Tyler clearly only asked him to answer me once in a while.

So why did this guy remember everything?

Why did he remember my birthday?

Why did he care whether I ate?

Why did he know when I had exams?

Why did he keep calling me baby?

I look down at the profile picture on the account.

Nothing useful.

No face.

No name.

Just some generic shot of an ice rink under stadium lights.

I swipe out of Instagram and open my camera roll.

It takes a while, but eventually I find the picture.

One year ago.

Before the running.

Before the dieting.

Before I start avoiding every camera pointed at me.

I'm wearing an oversized sweatshirt.

My cheeks are round.

My stomach pushes against the fabric when I sit.

There's a plate of fries in front of me and a milkshake beside it.

I'm smiling so hard my eyes almost disappear.

I stare at the photo.

For the first time in months, I don't delete it.

Instead, I open our messages again.

My thumb hovers over the send button.

If this guy has spent the past year pretending to like me, this should end it.

I attach the photo.

Then I type:

**Morning.**

I pause.

And add:

**Still want to call me baby?**

Then I hit send.