Twelve Likes, None of Them Mine

I found him by accident—

a mutual contact's feed, someone I barely follow,

and there was Marcus at a barbecue

holding a paper plate like he'd just been handed it

and hadn't decided yet if he was staying.

Six years. No fight.

Nothing that broke—

just the slow unthreading of contact,

the calls that got further apart

and then stopped.

He looked fine.

Happy, actually. Heavier

in the way that means a life has settled

around someone, furniture

finding its place in a room.

He wasn't looking at the camera.

Something to the left of the frame

had his attention—a dog, maybe, someone talking,

just the yard.

Twelve people liked the photo.

I sat there with my thumb above the heart

for longer than I want to admit,

then put my phone down

and went to get a glass of water

and stood at the sink for a while.

He doesn't know I was there.

He was already looking at something else.