+ FOLLOW

So here he sits, shaking all over because he's too f*****g scared, too terrified to look at his phone lest he hasn't receive a reply yet, and he feels sweat beads forming upon his brow, further trickling into his eyes, but then he thinks, wait a minute, are these tears or sweat, and this only causes him to perspire more profusely, adding another layer to his confused and terrified state. After a while (or maybe less than a minute - it's all the same to him), the pain of waiting becomes so great, the grasp of paranoia so tight around his neck that he just decides to fix everything his way, and precedes to block the number of the person he loves. Now, it won't matter at all whether she will send him a reply because he is the one in control. For a while this seems like a good solution, and it gives the man (let's call him Z) a chance to do something else, something a bit more productive with his time than to just sit on his sorry a*s and worry about whether this person, this woman he loves, will answer him or not. He decides to call up his father and inquire about his health, for he has been suffering from lung cancer for the past year, and Z feels this to be one of his few duties as a son, to at least call his dad once a week and ask him how he's doing, how the old man is holding up. So then this is what he does, calling his old man, and after a few seconds the old man himself picks up the phone, saying "hello" in a hoarse voice that freezes the blood in Z's veins. They talk of life and politics, of everything and nothing, things that don't matter, things that are only said between fathers and sons, and then the conversation gets to a dead-end, wherein both parties are engulfed in sorrowful silence, Z shedding quiet tears for his father, his father's breathing the only sound Z hears for the next thirty or so seconds. Then they say the usual goodbyes and Z hangs up, not realizing that for the past twenty-three minuets he has managed not to think about the woman. This only lasts, however, until he goes on Instagram just to snoop around and kill some time, and there he comes across her name in a list of suggested names, Instagram itself now pushing Z toward perhaps clicking the "+ FOLLOW" button, which leads him to feel trapped because following her is the last thing he wants to do. Yet when he sees a few of her latest pictures featured on her profile, right there before him on the screen, he feels this strange sense of sadness creeping into his bones, this same sadness then slowly taking control of his movements and will, and just like that, his efforts for the past twenty-four minuets down the drain, he clicks on one of the photos.

More than ten minutes of incessant scrolling down the screen goes by before Z finally stops, feeling as if he wants to vomit for reasons unknown to him, his breaths coming out in quick succession, until after a few seconds of chaotic introspection, he realizes why he's so damn upset. He looks at the last picture he has pulled up, of the woman he loves (or thinks he loves) standing by a medieval castle, smiling, and he wonders if this is from the trip where she had told him she had gone on by herself, and if it is, then who the hell took this picture? Perhaps another guy she hasn't been telling him about? Z feels like he has lost control of not only himself, but also of the whole world around him, and he feels bitter toward the woman for not updating him exactly on what she was doing during her trip, even though he knows that even if she did, he would merely click on the message yet refuse to reply right away, and this type of passive-aggressive behavior, Z thinks, gives him leverage over her, and, somehow, puts him in control. But now he possesses none of that control. His mind runs along the course of possible distractions, leaving his body behind in panic mode, but once settled on the perfect distraction for him, the mind then comes back to the body and tells Z in a hushed voice that he should give his mother a call. Z thinks this a good idea. He dials his mother's cellphone # frantically, his own cellphone shaking in his hands as he does so. When he waits for her to answer, he feels his right ear starting to get hot, for he's pressing the cellphone hard against his earlobe. Maybe this wasn't the best idea after all, he thinks to himself, but before being able to think of any other possible actions that would distract him from this crippling panic and paranoia, he suddenly hears his mother's voice on the other line. They talk about father and his condition and how he is sliding down the precipice toward pre-mature death. They also talk about their daily lives, her asking him - as any mother would - how his life is going, if he's eating well, has he met anyone, etc. etc. Halfway through the conversation, Z discovers an unfortunate fact about himself, that from now on he will never be able to 100% be there for anyone. Perhaps he will devote maximum 80% of his attention to the task at hand, the other 20% with the woman he loves (?), wondering if he has the right to distrust another human being based on no substantial evidence and merely on past behavior, which, he feels, is somehow the fault of the world, but maybe not, maybe it is him who's unable to just roll with the punches because he's always afraid of being left alone, of being lied to and cheated on. Whose fault is it, really?

And this is the question that now occupies his thoughts as he talks to his mother. Suddenly, out of the blue, he apologizes and tells her that he has to take care of some urgent business, that he is really sorry that he has to hang up mid-conversation, that he will call her again as soon as he gets the chance. He feels the need to make an account on Instagram and
+ FOLLOW the woman he loves, just to silently keep track of her actions, all the while maintaining the same detached exterior. Here is, however, the real conundrum: on the first page when he's about to sign up, he realizes that no matter how hard he thinks, he is unable to remember his own name.