I thought I was subtle. Just a little post on my story — a song lyric, a snapshot of my day, nothing too obvious. But in that quiet moment, I realised it wasn't about subtlety. It was about hope. Hope that someone, just one person, might notice. That they might pause, read between the lines, and feel the tiny pang of me thinking of you.

It hit me like a wave: this is the digital age's Gatsby. No extravagant parties. No orchestras or fireworks. Just filters, captions, and the gentle anxiety of seeing who views your story. We throw pieces of our lives into the void, not for everyone, but for one. One person whose attention we crave, whose acknowledgment feels like validation, whose reaction can make hours feel lighter or heavier. I scroll, I check, I wait. I see glimpses of them in the silent metrics — a view, a like, a comment. My chest tightens. And I realise the vulnerability here is staggering. Gatsby's mansion had walls and servants; I have algorithms and glowing rectangles. And yet the ache is the same. Longing doesn't care about century or medium. The funny part is how performative it all feels. A brunch pic, a quote, a perfectly timed smile. Each post is carefully constructed, layered with music or text, curated to attract notice without seeming desperate.

But inside, it's pure desperation. It's the human need to be seen by the one who matters most. Even if they're across a lake of data, of notifications, of missed signals, of life moving at a pace you can barely catch. And then there's the self-awareness. The slow, sinking realisation that you've become your own Gatsby, hoping that pixels can carry the weight of your feelings. That posting a story could somehow bridge the space between hearts, as if emojis and views could replace the vulnerability of conversation. Perhaps this is just the way longing looks now quiet, digital, almost invisible, yet crushing in its intensity.

And maybe one day, we'll tell stories of our hearts the way Gatsby did loudly, recklessly, and unapologetically.