In 2019, I was in an amusement park with two friends. With our backs toward the sea, we took a selfie of us three together with a girl. She stayed at the center of the picture, dressed in plain clothes with blonde hair and no make-up. She stared directly at the phone with a sad look on her face. Her eyes didn’t reflect any light. I was the one holding the phone right next to her. James was to the side, had his sunglasses on, wearing a tank top and a cap, both white. Robert was in the back, wearing a brown shirt and glasses with transition lenses.
I thought the girl was James’ girlfriend, but he denied it. He added that she would have been too flat for someone like him, and he thought she was Robert’s friend. Robert smiled but also disagreed; he felt she was my sister. The fact is, while we had this discussion, the girl was already gone. She disappeared the moment we took the selfie. Like if she never existed. My friends and I stood there looking at the screen. We were unaware that that day would have been the last one we saw each other again.
A few months later, Covid struck. 2020 was in its infancy, but my new year’s plans were already down the drain. Forced to stay at home, I started scrolling through my old photos until I found exactly what you guys and I are thinking about. And my heart jumped to my throat when I realized James wasn’t in the picture anymore. I placed the phone on the table, careful enough like I was managing a bomb but fast enough like I was holding a poisonous animal in my hands. I grabbed my forehead and looked at the picture. It was just us two and a girl. Her eyes were completely black, devoid of any life. It felt like she was staring at me at that moment. How can the look of a person that doesn’t exist feel so nerve-wracking? I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. When I reopened them, she wasn’t in the picture anymore. I removed my sweaty hand from the forehead and called it a day. I couldn’t sleep that night; everything that had just happened terrified me.
I turned on the light. The simple act of looking at my phone gave me chills. I didn’t want to look at that picture again in my lifetime. The more I thought about it, the more I felt powerless and paralyzed. I picked up the phone and unlocked the screen. I pulled out the picture, and when I saw two bottomless holes looking back at me, I threw my phone away in the hope it would explode. It didn’t. It ricocheted against the desk and landed flat on the floor.
I took a minute to calm down, then stood up with my hands clenched into fists. I picked up the phone. She was now smiling, and Robert wasn’t in the picture anymore. I laid down and waited for exhaustion to take over the adrenaline.
A loud knocking noise woke me up the next day. I didn’t realize I had fallen asleep with the phone clenched in my hand. I didn’t know why whoever was outside the door wasn’t using the doorbell. I looked outside the peephole, but I could see only darkness. The person on the other side must have obstructed it. The loud bangs kept going, and surely I had no intention of opening my home to a potential criminal during a pandemic. I was about to call 911, but the first thing I saw after unlocking the screen was the selfie I took in 2019. It was just me in the picture, and I froze. The heavy knocking kept going; the door itself was trembling. But it didn’t matter. I selected the selfie and pressed delete.
Silence.