ESSAY

Being ghosted

OPENING INSTAGRAM, RUBY FENELEY WAS STUNNED TO DISCOVER A FORMER LOVER HAD DIED. HERE, SHE EXPLORES THE WAYS OUR ONLINE AFTERLIVES COMPLICATE GRIEF

Tipsy and sprawled across my bed, I’m half-watching Instagram Stories, half-sending voice notes to a colleague. A grainy photo appears on my screen: someone has posted a picture of Christopher*, an ex-boyfriend from my early twenties. Christopher would be 35 now, but here he is, sitting on a beach, tanned and 24. The age he was when we dated. Caught off guard, I smile. I am fond of him; the feeling might not be mutual.

More photos appear: Christopher’s slightly gap-toothed grin in a wedding photobooth, Christopher on a boat. Warmth gives way to unease. Men I haven’t thought of in 12 years are all posting photos of him. Is it his birthday? I wonder. And then quiet dread. No, he’s a Taurus.

Eventually, confirmation. Someone has posted, describing Christopher’s beautiful smile, his sense of humour, their heartbreak.

I message a mutual friend, stumbling over my words. The message boils down to: “I’m so sorry for your loss, I don’t mean to impose, can you tell me what happened?” No worries if not, et cetera, et cetera.

I turn off my phone, slide it under the pillow and prepare myself for no response. Because I don’t really deserve one. I was 21 when we dated, but at 33, the way I behaved during our break-up still fills me with shame. While I may have thought of Christopher often, I’d never reached out. My tears feel fraudulent compared with the suffering of his family, partner and close friends. Who am I to be so devastated? And yet, when the message comes in that Christopher had been sick, I spend the next two days in bed, sobbing and scrolling through old photos.