But the next morning, when she woke up, she did not reach for her phone to see who had liked her post. She placed her own hand over her heart and felt it beat.
By minute eight, she was crying. Not sad tears. Recognition tears.
But she did it. She traced the bone beneath her hoodie. The camera on the website zoomed in, not voyeuristically, but reverently, like a nature documentary observing a rare bird. www.ifeelmyself.com
"Now, your forearm. The place where you scratched your skin raw during finals week in college. Forgive it."
The browser crashed. The history was empty. But the next morning, when she woke up,
"You have spent 11,407 days becoming who you are for others. Today, spend ten minutes becoming who you are for yourself. Allow camera access?"
She rolled her eyes. "This is ridiculous." Not sad tears
Elara laughed. A virus. Definitely a virus. But her finger, traitorous and tired, clicked "Allow."