She had not spoken to him in three months. The relationship, if it could even be called that, had ended with a whimper rather than a bang. They had gone on four dates, shared a few passionate nights, and then he had slowly faded away. The texts became shorter, the plans became vaguer, and eventually the communication stopped altogether. He never officially ended things. He just stopped reaching out, and she stopped trying. She had accepted that it was over, that he was not interested, that she needed to move on. And she had moved on, or at least she was trying to.

But then she noticed something strange. He was still watching her Instagram stories. Every single one. Within minutes of her posting, his name would appear at the top of the viewer list. He never commented, never liked, never sent a message. He just watched. He watched her morning coffee, her evening walks, her nights out with friends. He watched her vacation photos, her gym selfies, her carefully curated moments of happiness. He was a silent presence, a ghost in the machine, a spectator to her life without any intention of being a participant.