Deleting You From My Picture

When I prepared to deactivate our TikTok accountthe one with over a million followersthe comments section was a frenzy of pleas.

Please don't go! We're still waiting for your travel documentary series!

I stared at the screen, gave a quiet, humorless laugh, and tapped confirm.

My boyfriend was the editor. Wed made a pact to document every city we visited together on the platform. For three years, my lens was trained entirely on him. But in the final cuts he exported, I was nowhere to be found.

Until last week, when I was helping him clean up his external drive. Tucked away in the deepest subfolder was a directory named Elena.

I clicked it. It was another girl.

She was standing on a backlit beach, the setting sun painting her hair a warm, spun-gold. The footage was in slow motion, edited to the exact indie ballad we called "our song." Every single frame had been meticulously color-graded and retouched.

Meanwhile, in the hundreds of videos wed published, I had only ever appeared once. I was a blurry, out-of-focus shape in the background. In the overlay comments, hed actually typed: "Who let this random extra into the shot?"

It wasnt that he didnt know how to edit me. It was that I was never worthy of being in his frame.

As I was packing my things, my phone buzzed with an urgent text from him, demanding to know why the account was gone. I didnt reply.

Since he never wanted me in his frame, I would simply walk out of his shot entirely.

I opened my airline app and booked a one-way ticket back home to Maine for three nights from now.

When the confirmation popped up, my thumb hovered over the screen. It felt like finally waking up from a three-year-long dream.

It was just past one in the morning when the front door unlocked. The bedroom lights flickered on, harsh and blinding. I winced, shielding my eyes.

Tim stood by the edge of the bed, his voice tight with impatience.

"What the hell happened to the account?"

"Do you have any idea how important tomorrow is? Elena has a brand sponsor reviewing our metrics. You deleting the account just killed her deal."

"Regina, do you ever think before you act?"

I opened my eyes but said nothing. He waited a beat, his temper flaring hotter.

"A million followers, just gone? Three years of my editing work, down the drain?"

"What kind of crazy episode are you having right now?"

I propped myself up against the headboard, keeping my voice quiet. "Tim, I want to break up."

He stiffened, then let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "This again?"

"Aren't you tired of threatening to leave every time you're unhappy? I was just putting together a portfolio for Elena so she could sign a contract."

"Youre a grown woman, Regina. Is it not exhausting to be this jealous over nothing?"

I didnt take the bait. He sighed, his posture slumping slightly as his tone softened.

"Look, I get it. Youve been in a bad mood lately. But did you really have to blow things up like this? Now I have to spend tomorrow explaining this to the sponsors. Do you think I don't have enough on my plate?"

I watched him pour a glass of water, drink it down, and explain his rationalizations. A profound, bone-deep exhaustion washed over me. In his entire tirade, there was room for Elenas brand deals, the value of the account, and his three years of wasted labor.

There was just no room for me.

I pulled the duvet back over my shoulders and turned my back to him. Tim lingered for a moment, his voice dropping an octave.

"Just sleep. We'll talk about this tomorrow."

Soon, the rush of the shower filled the apartment. I kept my eyes wide, staring at the blank wall.

In the quiet of the dark, my mind drifted back to three years ago. The night we hit a hundred thousand followers. Wed been sitting on the hardwood floor of our cramped studio apartment, eating cheap instant ramen.

Tim had held up his phone, his eyes reflecting the blue light of the screen with absolute wonder.

"Regina," he had said, "from now on, you capture the most beautiful frames. And Ill edit you into the most beautiful story. I promise."

The hum of the water continued in the bathroom. My eyes stung with a sudden, sharp ache.

When I woke up the next morning, he was already gone. I made myself a quick bowl of oatmeal, the rising steam blurring my vision.

I pulled out my phone and texted my mother.

"Mom, Im coming home in a couple of days to stay for a bit."

It took a long time for her to reply.

"Really? You aren't too busy?" followed by, "Your dad had his checkup last month. The doctor says his recovery is on track, but he keeps asking when you'll visit."

I stared at her wordsYou aren't too busy?and felt a lump rise in my throat.

During our first year, over the holidays, Tim had insisted we stay to finish a holiday campaign. "If you leave, who's going to assist me?"

During our second year, when my dad underwent coronary bypass surgery, Tim had told me, "Going back won't help him heal. It's better to finish the sponsor shoot so we can send them money. That's more practical."

By the third year, when Elena returned from living abroad, he didn't even bother making up a good excuse. He just shrugged and said, "We can't walk away right now."

I typed out a long, rambling paragraph. I wanted to apologize. I wanted to tell her how much I had missed them, how utterly exhausted I was.

But in the end, I deleted it character by character.

I simply wrote: "Ill call you when I land. Don't worry Dad about it."

Around four in the afternoon, Tim returned. A few minutes later, the clatter of pots and pans drifted from the kitchen.

I froze. Tim was cooking.

In our three years together, I could count the number of times hed cooked on one handand it was always just scrambled eggs or instant noodles. Today, there were three different dishes and a pot of soup simmering on the stove. He was looking at a recipe video on his phone, awkwardly tossing vegetables in the pan.

I stood in the doorway. "Who is all this for?"

He didn't look up from his phone. "Elenas coming over for dinner. Shes on a strict diet, and takeout is too greasy. Its healthier to cook at home."

I mumbled a quiet "Oh" and went back to the bedroom.

I remembered the weeks Id worked late nights, stumbling through the front door at midnight, asking if he could at least boil some pasta for me. His response had always been the same: "Are your hands broken? Do I have to wait on you hand and foot?"

Now, he was cutting fruit, simmering bone broth, and remembering that Elena didn't eat spicy food and preferred room-temperature water.

Meanwhile, I had told him a thousand times that I couldn't stand cilantro, yet a thick layer of it floated on top of the soup he was brewing.

The savory scent of the kitchen drifted into the bedroom, and my stomach betrayingly growled. I opened a food delivery app and ordered a simple bowl of soup.

Just as I finished eating, the doorbell rang. Elena had arrived. She brought a bottle of red wine, her laughter ringing out as she stepped inside.

"Tim! Since when do you know how to cook? This is amazing."

Tim sounded almost bashful. "Just picked it up last week. Its nothing special."

At the dining table, Elena offered me a fork with a bright smile. "Regina, you should try some of this."

I shook my head. "I already ate."

Tim frowned, setting down his glass. "When did you eat?"

"I ordered delivery."

His face darkened immediately. "I cooked a whole table of food and you went and ordered takeout? What is your problem, Regina? Do you have to act so childish in front of Elena?"

I looked at him, the sting of humiliation rising in my throat. But I refused to let him see me cry. I turned and walked back into the bedroom, shutting the door behind me. "Enjoy your dinner."

Through the thin wall, I could hear Elenas bright, melodic laughter and Tims murmuring responses. His voice was low, laced with a gentle patience I hadn't heard directed at me in three years.

The next morning, Tim came into the kitchen and immediately asked, "Did you make breakfast?"

"I forgot," I said quietly.

He took a deep, irritated breath. "I literally asked you last night. How do you forget that? Regina, what is wrong with you lately? You used to never be like this."

"You can make it yourself," I replied. "Since youre such a good cook now."

He stared at me for a long beat, letting out a cold scoff. "Fine. Keep playing these games. Let's see who breaks first."

I said nothing.

He slumped onto the sofa and opened his laptop to edit. After a while, he spoke up without looking at me.

"Oh, by the way, the Iceland sponsorship is locked."

My thumb froze over my phone screen. Tims voice was casual.

"The brand wants an aurora-themed travel shoot. We fly out early next month. Seven days."

I remained silent.

He seemed to recall something, adding, "I know I promised we'd go together. But the brand specifically requested someone with a chic, editorial look. Elena fits that aesthetic better."

He paused, then tossed out a careless reassurance. "Ill take you some other time. It's not like Iceland is going anywhere."

Iceland wasnt going anywhere. But I had been waiting for three years.

The night we hit a million followers, eating cheap ramen in our tiny apartment, Tim had promised: "Once things settle down, I'm taking you to Iceland to see the Northern Lights. I know it's your dream."

I had brought it up so many times after that. Each time, he claimed we didn't have the budget, or our schedule was too packed, or that we should focus on domestic trips first.

Now the budget was there. The schedule was open. He was finally going to Iceland.

But he was taking Elena.

I gave him a quiet murmur of agreement. He visibly relaxed, likely assuming I was finally falling back into my usual submissive role.

I stood up and went to take a shower. Once the water started running, I slid down the tiled wall and sat on the floor, letting the hot spray wash over me. My tears mingled with the water, completely indistinguishable.

When I came out, Tim was browsing a camera retailer on his laptop. The screen showed a high-end camera bodyworth over five thousand dollars.

He didn't look up. "Elenas birthday is next month. I want to get her this. Her phone's video quality is terrible. You're the gear expert, take a look for me."

I stared at the screen.

My birthday had been last month. He had completely forgotten it. I hadn't reminded him. I had just ordered a lonely bowl of takeout at the studio.

Three days later, hed sent a brief text: "Forgot your birthday. I'll make it up to you."

He never did.

"Whatever," I muttered.

Tim scowled. "What do you mean, 'whatever'? Im trying to have a normal conversation with you. Can you at least act like a human being?"

I looked at him.

Three years. Over sixty cities. A career Id abandoned. A family Id neglected. A birthday spent eating cold takeout alone. And now, I was the one who wasn't "acting like a human being."

The words choked me, pooling in my throat until only a flat response remained. "Do whatever makes you happy."

I walked into the bedroom. Before the door clicked shut, I heard him mutter, "Unbelievable," followed by the sound of heavy keystrokes.

He bought the camera. He paid for it using our joint business account. Half of that money was mine.

He left again in the afternoon. I pulled my suitcase from the top shelf of the closet.

A few sweaters, my documents, my old storyboarding notebooks, a pair of gold earrings. That was it.

I stared at the small pile, stunned by how little there was. Three years of my life, shrunk down to fit into half a suitcase.

My phone rang. It was Tim.

"Elenas shoot is short-handed this afternoon. We need someone to hold the reflector. Can you come over?"

"I'm busy."

He scoffed. "You're just sitting at home. What's the big deal?"

"No."

The line went quiet for a beat. Then, Elenas sweet, melodic voice chimed in near the receiver.

"Regina! Hey, it's Elena. Please don't worry about it, I can easily find a friend to help. Tim, don't badger Regina, let her rest at home."

She giggled. "Oh, by the way, Regina, Tim was just telling me how thin you've gotten lately. Make sure you eat a good dinner, okay?"

I gripped the phone tightly. It turned out even his minor displays of concern had to be filtered through Elena before they reached me.

"Got it," I said, and hung up.

I went back to folding my sweaters, my chest aching with a dull, throbbing weight.

The package arrived that evening. It was the camera. Tim unboxed it with extreme care, handling it like a fragile treasure.

"The sensor is gorgeous," he murmured. "Elenas going to love this."

His mothers name lit up his phone screen. He swiped to answer and put it on speaker.

"How are things, sweetie? Is that lovely girl, Elena, still filming with you?"

Tim smiled. "Yeah, Mom. It's going great."

"I saw the video you posted. She is just stunning, and she has such class."

Tim chuckled. "Stop, Mom, you're going to give her a big head."

His mother continued, "Make sure you bring Elena over for Christmas dinner. Your dad really wants to meet her."

I sat on the edge of the sofa, my hands and feet turning ice-cold.

There was a brief pause on the line before his mother seemed to remember my existence. "Oh... and how is Regina? I feel like I haven't heard her name in a while. Are you two doing okay?"

Tim glanced at me. "We're fine, Mom. Don't worry about it."

He didn't elaborate. He didn't ask if I wanted to say hello.

For three years, I had bought his parents Christmas gifts, called them on their birthdays, and sent weekly check-in texts. Yet to his mother, I had become an afterthoughta name that had faded from conversation.

He ended the call and placed the camera into a decorative gift box.

I stood up. "Where are you going?" he asked.

"To bed."

My final day arrived.

Before leaving that morning, Tim called out, "I have a full day of shooting. I'll probably be back late."

"Okay," I replied.

Once the front door clicked shut, a heavy silence settled over the apartment. This was my last day in this space.

I pulled my suitcase out from behind the wardrobe. Documents, the gold earrings, my notebooks, a few outfits, my chargers. Everything fit into a single carry-on bag.

I looked around. Almost everything in this apartment had been bought by me. I left all of it behind.

In the kitchen, the spice jars still bore the neat labels Id printed. A sticky note remained on the refrigerator door in my handwriting: Need eggs. Almost out of olive oil.

Before I moved in, Tims fridge was always empty. I was the one who had turned this cold apartment into a home.

In the living room, I had picked out the sofa, ordered the curtains, and replaced the throw pillow covers three times. The packing foam from his new camera was still piled on the coffee table, waiting for someone to clean it up.

In the study, the high-end editing monitor and PC had been purchased with my savingsnearly twenty thousand dollars. At the time, Tim had told me, "Once the channel takes off, Ill pay you back tenfold."

It had been three years. He had never paid me back, nor had he ever brought it up.

On the corner of the monitor screen, a cute little panda sticker that belonged to Elena was pasted, a silent reminder that the space already belonged to someone else.

I rolled my suitcase to the entryway and took one last look.

Inside the elevator, I dialed my mother. "Mom, Im landing today."

Her voice instantly brightened, pitching higher. "Really? Should we come pick you up at the airport? Your dad went to the market early this morningwhat do you want to eat?"

Listening to her voice, a sudden wave of warmth flooded my chest, and my eyes swelled. "Anything is fine, Mom."

During the cab ride to the airport, I scrolled through my social feed and saw Tims latest post. A nine-image grid. Every single photo was of Elena.

Elena holding her new camera, Elena laughing into the lens, Elena leaning in close to Tim to look at the monitor.

The caption read: New journeys, new partnerships. Stay tuned.

I scrolled back through his profile. In three years, there wasnt a single mention of me. No couple photos, no birthday wishes, no trips. The only time I had ever appeared was in a sponsored post from two years ago.

He had written: Thanks to the team. I was the entire team.

Scrolling further down, I saw his mother had shared the post, commenting: My son found the perfect partner. Bigger and better things ahead!

I closed the app. I opened my phones photo library, selected the remaining fourteen photos of Tim and me, and hit delete.

I arrived at the airport, checked in, and went through security.

The terminal was buzzing with travelers. My phone vibrated in my palm. It was a voice message from Timthe first time in three days he had actually reached out with his own voice.

I tapped play. His voice was slightly low.

"Regina, are you still mad at me? Youve been so quiet these past few days. Ive been thinking, and maybe... maybe there were some things I overlooked."

I held the phone, a small, involuntary ache flaring in my chest.

Another message popped up immediately.

"But you have to understand me, too. Its been insanely busy. Elenas just starting out, and she relies on me for almost everything. Once shes established, I promise Ill make time for you. Youve worked in media; you know how this goes."

"About the account... think about it again. Losing a million followers is a massive waste. I can help you rebuild your own brand if you want. It's hard to start from scratch, but we can make it work."

Finally, a text message followed: Don't be mad. It's really not that big of a deal.

Not that big of a deal.

I stared at those words. Three years of quiet humiliation, the deleted frames, being labeled a random extra, the broken promises of Iceland. To him, it was just a minor inconvenience.

I began typing a long response. I wanted to tell him how long I had waited, how deeply it had hurt. I wanted to tell him that he wasn't incapable of lovehe was just incapable of loving me.

But midway through, I deleted the entire block of text.

I scrolled back through three years of chat history to the very first message he had ever sent me: From now on, you capture the most beautiful frames, and I'll edit you into the most beautiful story.

I stared at it for a few seconds. Then, I replied with just five words:

This is where we end.