Aarav sat in the waiting room, his stomach churning. The gastroenterologist had called it "Functional Dyspepsia"—a polite medical term for your gut is screaming, and we don't know why. He was doing what he always did when he felt discomfort: he reached for his phone. The black mirror. The pacifier. He opened Instagram. His thumb moved in the rhythmic, hypnotic motion of the modern addict. Scroll. Double tap. Scroll. Double tap. It was a mechanism to numb the brain, a way to be everywhere and nowhere at once. Then, his thumb froze. A picture appeared on his feed. It was Riya. The girl from the café. The "Architect, 5'5, fluently sarcastic" girl he had walked out on three months ago because she talked about her sick grandmother, and that was "too heavy" for his vibe. It was a black-and-white photo. The caption, posted by a mutual friend, read: “Cannot believe you are gone. The world lost its brightest smile today. Rest in power, Riya. 1999–2024.” Aarav stared at the screen. The pixels seemed to blur. Gone? She can’t be gone. I just swiped left on her profile again last week. He tapped on the tagged account. It was a memorial page. There were comments pouring in. "She was the kindest soul." "She stayed up all night to help me with my thesis." "Her laugh could fill a stadium."