The First Message

I was halfway through a political podcast, wiping down the kitchen counters, when – ding.

An Instagram notification. Someone called exposingliars had requested to follow me.

I paused the audio, wondering what this was about.

The account had zero followers, nine followings, and only one post. From the thumbnail, it looked like a collection of Snapchat screenshots.

What is this…?

I tapped into the image carousel.

Explicit messages. Explicit photos. A not-so-subtle pseudonym in the thread.

Ding. Another notification.

This time, a direct message from exposingliars: “Did you see?”

I sent a thumbs up emoji, then swiped out of the app all together.

Almost immediately, exposingliars followed up: “Aren’t you mad?”

Fuckin’ weirdo.

Blocked.

The Perimeter

I was laying on the loveseat with the dog curled up under my knees. She was fast asleep, exhausted from wreaking havoc all day while I tried to work.

Sabrina Carpenter’s Espresso had just shuffled on when I received another Instagram notification:

“exposingliars7 would like to send you a message.”

My legs stopped bouncing. I turned down the volume.

I swiped the notification away and tapped into the profile. This new account had fifteen followings. Among them: my cousin, one of my best friends, and… my mom.

My face went cold.

Great. This complicates things.

I next tapped into the message to see what exposingliars had to say today – his seventh in a row.

“You should be more grateful.”

Sabrina was still crooning quietly between my fingers (My twisted humor make him laugh so often / My honeybee, come and get this pollen). I paused the music to think more clearly.

For a few moments, my thumbs danced along the side of my phone. Then, I gave him three words.

“I don’t care.”

Active Now

I was standing in the kitchen, fanning the steam rising from the garlic chicken sizzling in the skillet. I was just about to pour another glass of chardonnay when my watch vibrated.

I glanced at the notification, and —

“No way. Fuck this.”

It was Instagram. exposingliars11. The rest didn't register.

I paused the TV, snatched my phone off the counter, and slugged down the rest of my wine. I tapped into the new chat and spotted the green dot on the blank profile picture.

Active now.

“Stop,” said Josh, reaching for my phone. I shrugged him off.

The video call trilled against the sizzling chicken.

Rejected.

I tried again.

Rejected.

I went to call a third time when I noticed the bouncing dots in the chat.

He was typing.

I never gave him the chance to finish. It took two taps to block him.

He never came back.

The Puppet Master

He wasn’t a puppet master. He wasn’t pulling any strings.

He was just a man with burner accounts, hiding behind his screens.

It was never threatening. It was second-hand embarrassing.

And I don’t engage with grown men who choose obscurity instead of being seen.