You can decide who this drabble is about.
I refresh the page again. Nothing. Make me happy, please, I whisper to myself, allowing my halfhearted words to be directed to any being listening.
The brightly lit screen always reads the same, every time my fingers click that curved arrow, raw skin burning from the biting that had been done around the fingernails. No Messages.
The searing pain in the back of my brain yearns to type, or even speak, my uneloquent thoughts. I am not worthy of the time they could spend bumping the pads of their fingers on their own screen, so they move on to better things. Better people.
People they want to talk to.
I refresh the page again, knowing the results that include my prolonged endurance of disappointment. Not in anyone but myself and how I could be so stupid as to even bother opening the social media app that I pretend not to care about.
Ding. A notification. A reply.
I'm passive aggressive in my own response. I know I shouldn't be, I am the cause of my own suffering.
I send more than one message, subconsciously knowing that the first one is an excuse not to continue the conversation. A way out to my peers involved. I don't send a third message, also knowing that they'll see the second message only as a second excuse. The message is read not just by my own eyes, but by the uninterested peepers of my companions.
No response. I am only slightly deterred. I already knew I would be witnessing that 'r' icon jump up on the screen, just below the last words sent.
I'll leave it. I am typically one to force interaction from unwanted specimens, but not this time.
I give up on them.