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Does Before stalk my social media, the way I stalk After?

She’s beautiful. Fashionable. He discarded her, the way he discarded me, but then comes Next. If I think they’re all perfect, maybe the same’s been thought of me. Maybe a few of them managed to break his heart before he could break theirs.

She looks like me. It doesn’t matter which she. April, May, and June are all women’s names, lined up in skinny jeans and infinity scarves and crocheted mittens, posting bouquets of daisies and lilies (I hope none of them have cats) and sometimes roses, if they’re still dating by February.

To the sweetest, After captioned. Flowers for her birthday. How original. I knew they broke up when she took it down, wiped him clear off her timeline. Who unfollowed whom? If I messaged After, would she meet me? Would Before come, and First, and Second, and April, May, and June? We could rent out a coffee studio, have a meeting of Blindsided Anonymous.

I don’t think it’s pathetic, to fall in love, or to yearn, or even to stalk. I’m not hoping he comes back to me. The shards he left in my chest are still sharp. I see myself in After, and Next, and Later, and Current. It’s uncanny, to realize I am unique and all-too-common.

The woman he’s with now calls herself Last. Her bragging, perfectly-manicured square with the princess-cut rock. She got the ring, ladies. Pack it up. She beat us all out.

The Collective of Blindsided Anonymous laughs. Honey, we all called ourselves Last.