Something Believable
Jenna James lost her father last week. I saw it on TikTok.
She sits cross-legged on her bedroom floor while soft piano music plays underneath her grief. Her mascara is smudged beneath both eyes. She says she feels hollow now. Different. Like part of her has been removed.
I watch the video twice.
The second time, I try to pinpoint the exact moment her face changes into the face of a person whose father is dead.
Kyle and Maria had their baby yesterday. I see it on Instagram between videos of recipes and a woman explaining the signs of emotional abuse.
The baby’s eyes open in the fourth slide. I press the heart button so quickly it startles me.
Kyle looks exhausted already. Maria glowing in the frightening, religious way new mothers sometimes do. The comments call them beautiful. Blessed. Complete.
I stare at the photos long enough to feel briefly excluded from something ancient and biological.
Sarah has skin cancer.
At first she thought the spot on her shoulder was nothing. Just another freckle. Another harmless thing growing quietly beneath the skin.
While she talks, I open my front-facing camera and zoom in on the mole near my collarbone. Under the bathroom light, it looks darker than before.
I schedule a dermatology appointment while she’s still explaining the biopsy results. Afterward I spend forty minutes watching videos about symptoms I should never ignore.
My uncle’s dog dies on a Thursday morning.
There’s a photograph of him wrapped in a blanket at the vet. His cloudy eyes half-open. One paw still visible beneath the fabric.
I stare at the picture longer than I should. Long enough that the image begins to feel staged somehow. Not fake exactly. Just arranged. Like grief itself has started positioning its own lighting now.
I wonder if he took the picture because he was sad or because sadness feels less real if nobody witnesses it. I leave a comment anyway. He looked so loved.
Meghan’s divorce becomes official three weeks later.
In the reel she dances barefoot in her kitchen holding a wine glass while text appears above her head about freedom and new beginnings.
Yesterday at lunch she forgot what she was saying halfway through a sentence and started crying when the waitress asked if she wanted soup or salad.
Today she has six thousand likes. I leave a comment beneath the video. You look so happy.
And then it’s my turn.
My boyfriend of four years breaks up with me on a Tuesday morning before work.
It’s not you, it’s me.
I’m not ready.
You deserve better.
After he leaves, the apartment becomes painfully quiet. Not cinematic quiet. Refrigerator humming. Pipes clicking. Someone mowing their lawn outside.
I sit on the kitchen floor for almost an hour before I cry. Then I open TikTok. I sit in the same place Jenna cried in. I fix my hair. Angle the camera toward the window. Watch my face carefully on the screen. Surprised looks fake. Devastated looks embarrassing. The quiet version looks the most believable.
I press record.
Kelsey Flaherty
Kelsey Flaherty is a writer and photographer living in Cincinnati, Ohio. Her work has appeared in Hobart, 101 words and Beyond Words.