We were perfect online but Miserable in real life

We looked perfect in pixels.

Smiling in Santorini. Kissing under cherry blossoms in Kyoto. Laughing over overpriced brunches with plates we barely touched. Our followers called us “#relationshipgoals.” Brands slid into our DMs offering couple deals. Even our parents sent heart emojis on our anniversary posts.

But offline?

We barely spoke.

The silence had crept in slowly, like fog—quiet, unnoticeable at first, until we couldn’t see each other anymore. I used to wake up and watch her sleep, memorizing the way sunlight touched her eyelashes. Now, I’d wake up and scroll through Instagram before even looking at her. She did the same. We were both there, but never really present.

It wasn’t always like this.

We met in college—through mutual friends and cheap wine. Our first date was at a ramen joint where the table was sticky and the waitress forgot our order. We laughed through it all. We used to talk for hours—about our dreams, our fears, the stupid things we believed when we were kids.

Then came the followers.

One post went viral—a goofy video of us dancing in pajamas. Suddenly, people loved our love. And we loved the attention. Every date became a photoshoot. Every fight paused for a perfect picture. We crafted a love story online, one “like” at a time. The more they adored us, the less we had to deal with what was happening underneath.

Like the way she’d shut down during arguments. Or the way I’d avoid confrontation by pretending everything was fine. We started choosing silence over honesty, appearances over authenticity.

One night, we went to a rooftop party, invited by another influencer couple we didn’t even like. We had just had a fight in the Uber—about something stupid. I can’t even remember what. But when we stepped out onto the rooftop, we smiled for selfies like nothing was wrong. Everyone cheered when we arrived. Someone handed us champagne. We looked at each other and laughed, but it was hollow.

Later that night, I found her crying in the bathroom.

“I’m tired,” she whispered, mascara smudged under her eyes. “I don’t even know if this is real anymore.”

I sat next to her on the cool tile floor and didn’t know what to say. Because I didn’t know either.

The next morning, we posted a “candid” photo of us cuddling in bed. It got 12,000 likes.

**

Months passed.

We kept pretending.

It became routine. Shoot content. Post reels. Smile. Repeat.

We avoided real conversations like landmines. Every time I tried to bring up how distant we felt, she’d say, “Let’s just enjoy the moment.” And I’d nod. Because that was easier than digging into the truth.

Until one night, after a sponsored staycation, she turned to me as we were packing up and said, “Do you even love me, or just the idea of us?”

The question hit like a car crash.

I stared at her, the silence between us screaming louder than any fight we’d ever had.

“I don’t know anymore,” I admitted.

She nodded. No tears. Just that resigned, exhausted look people get when they’ve known the ending long before it arrives.

**

We didn’t announce the breakup.

No statement. No final post. We just... stopped.

People messaged, confused. “Where’s the other half of the power couple?” “Are you guys okay?” “Still rooting for you!”

We let the silence speak.

I moved out. She kept the apartment. I started therapy. Deleted the app for a while. Started journaling. Trying to figure out how I got so lost in performing love that I forgot how to feel it.

Sometimes I scroll through our old photos. The smiles look real. The moments feel warm. But I know now they were filtered memories—carefully posed snapshots that told only half the story.

The internet loved us. But we forgot to love each other.

**

A year later, I saw her again.

At a bookstore, of all places. She was alone, thumbing through a poetry collection. We made eye contact, smiled. Not that forced, influencer smile—but a quiet, honest one. The kind that says, “I hope you’re okay.”

We didn’t say much. Just a few polite words. She looked lighter somehow. Like someone who had learned how to carry herself again.

So had I.

We didn’t follow each other anymore. But I did find one of her new posts a few weeks later. A photo of a cup of tea and an open book. No face. No hashtags. Just the caption:

“Learning to enjoy life unfiltered.”

I double-tapped it.

And smiled.

This time, for real.


---