Work Text:
Misty may not be a professional online stalker, but she's a pretty good one.
She can use Reddit, obviously, plus Twitter. She's dabbled in TikTok and has had a YouTube account since the site went live. Facebook fears her.
And she has Instagram. It's not her preferred platform. Most of the people she needs to keep tabs on have their whole lives on Facebook, so she has it mainly to check on Callie every once in a while. But when Instagram says she can buy a premium in order to see who's rewatched her stories—well, Misty wouldn't actually be a very good stalker if she let go of that opportunity.
So she clicks it, she gives the site her credit card (the world already knows everything there is to know about her from press releases and late night TV specials on the crash, so she doesn't see a point in safeguarding her information), and then she waits.
And nothing. She doesn't get a lot of views on her stories in general, but her heart still sinks at the lack of notifications. She posts a video of Caligula, and the only person who sees it is her former weird coworker who was obsessed with his dog. Misty tried to explain why birds are better pets, but he didn't appreciate it. He wasn't the only reason she quit that job, but it was a contributing factor.
Anyway, she posts another video on a walk. There's this small waterfall if you walk deep enough into the woods. She does that sometimes, go far out into the trees and only emerge at sunset.
Even the old coworker doesn't look at that story. She checks every hour, but nothing changes until 22 hours later, Callie views it. She followed Misty back, presumably, to keep tabs on her as well. Misty thinks if Shauna knew she'd put a stop to it, but she's not even sure Shauna knows what Instagram is. She certainly doesn't have it; out of Misty's friends only Tai, whose account is entirely political and has already blocked Misty, Van, who promotes her store, and Nat, who was very difficult to find, have an account.
Callie doesn't rewatch it. Misty frowns as she studies her screen. This seems to be a waste of money more than anything.
She gives it one more chance. Her next story is simple—just a selfie of her in scrubs at work. Her first attempt at a photo makes her scoff. Her smile is way too fake; everyone will see through it. She tries again, softening her eyes and mouth enough so her cheeks don't strain and the wrinkles across her face subside slightly.
The background of the photo is a microwave in the staff kitchen. It's nothing compared to Caligula or the woods, but she posts it anyway.
Her shift drags in a way it normally doesn't, perhaps because it goes from 8 to 12 hours when her patient decides to fake die three times. By Hour 11 she's hoping they'll get it over with and do it for real that time, but they miraculously recover, and she speeds home, ready to collapse.
It's when her head hits the pillow that she remembers to check Instagram. She clicks the app with a pointer finger in slow motion. Then she swipes up, checking the viewer list, eyelids already drooping.
Except Nat is there. She doesn't have a profile picture, but it's her handle: @NS1978. And even more than that, Instagram says that she watched the story three times.
Three times.
Misty is very awake now. The most awake she's ever been possibly, and also very relieved she didn't waste her money after all. This information would be worth the entirety of her settlement payment.
She clicks on Nat's profile. It's the same as always, locked behind the "This profile is private" wall. Misty only stopped requesting her account after her fifth rejection out of fear of being outright blocked. After she left it alone for a few days, Nat followed her, which felt enough like a win. She figured Nat hardly used the app since she would view her story maybe once a month.
She just had no idea that when she was viewing one of her stories, it was more than once. Misty smiles to herself and stares at Nat's blank profile picture until she can't keep her eyes open a second longer.
After that, the question isn't whether someone will rewatch her stories. It's what can make Nat do it again.
She posts Caligula another time, because who wouldn't want to see him? She grins as she uploads the photo of him eating his birdseed, heart fluttering. Nat watches it, but only once. She doesn't even click on the story Misty posts at a coffee shop, even though she spent twenty minutes getting the angle right so it doesn't look like she's alone. Her review of Survivor while she's on her lunch break sits at 0 views.
After a few more tries, she realizes Nat doesn't tend to look at her stories if she posts them in the middle of the day. She spends a few hours trying to figure out if she's started a new job, but comes up empty. It doesn't matter in the end; what's important is she knows when she's active online, not why (though Misty desperately needs to know and makes a note to check in a few days if anything else comes up online).
She switches to posting only at night. And the first day she does that, Misty jumps at the notification that Nat liked one of her stories.
Within a few seconds, it's unliked. Still, Misty studies this picture. There's nothing about it that should have caught Nat's attention more than any of the others. It's posted at work, like most of her stories. A picture of a patient's emotional support cat.
Misty didn't realize Nat was a cat fan. Should she adopt one? No, Caligula would hate that.
Instead, on her way to work the next day, she swerves off the main road. The driver behind her honks loudly, then screams, "Fucking bitch!" with his middle finger outstretched far beyond his window. It's close enough Misty could bite it through her own if she really wanted. She rolls her eyes and mutters drama queen instead.
On the sidewalk is a small cat. She gets out of the car and its ears perk up. Even though they're not her preferred pet, Misty can appreciate cats. They understand more about humans than dogs, in her opinion. They want to be worshipped more than anything.
"Hey, kitty kitty." Misty outstretches her hand. The cat's pink nose twitches as it stretches its head out to her tentatively. While it inspects that hand, Misty snaps a photo of him with her free one. Its big green eyes stare into her phone.
Yeah, I don't mind cats, she thinks as she reaches to stroke its yellow fur.
Except this one suddenly decides her hand and swipes his claw at it. Misty jumps up with a yelp.
"No!" she says fiercely. "Bad cat!"
The cat hisses in return. Its back raises in a way that Misty's pretty sure means get the fuck away or get attacked.
"Fine," she says. And then she stomps back to her car and makes it to work only one minute late.
Her efforts mean nothing in the end. It's ridiculous! After Misty posts the cat that night, Nat watches the story only once. She doesn't tap the like button, either. Misty has half the mind to message her and say I was almost brutally attacked and actually late to work to get you that photo, but she knows Nat can be as skittish as cats. Letting on that she's watching Nat online is sure to drive her off the internet entirely, and for her to possibly request a restraining order.
So she plays it cool. She keeps posting. She finds another cat, but there's still nothing from Nat. A photo of the leaves changing color doesn't work either.
At first, this game was fun, but it's going nowhere now, and Misty's bored. The exhilaration that came with posting is gone. Nat's attention was a fluke.
So when a man approaches her in the grocery store and asks if she wants to go out on a date, she says yes.
She knows what he is immediately. There's something in the glint in his eyes that tells her he's a plane crash fanatic. She swore off dating people like him after a few years back in New Jersey—at first the attention was nice, but she found they weren't very kind about the sanitized Taissa-approved story she regurgitated to them.
Maybe this one will be different. Maybe he won't be, but Misty isn't too concerned with that right now. She wants a distraction. She says she can get dinner after work the next day.
When she gets home, she posts a photo of the tree in her backyard against the sunset. Nat doesn't react to it.
The next day of work flies by. Patients need her help, she gives it, her coworkers give her strange looks for reasons she's never figured out, she rushes home. Her makeup box sits slightly askew from her rush out the door that morning.
You deserve to be with someone who really wants to be with you rings through her mind as she brings lipstick to her mouth. She shakes her head. She needs to focus. Her hand draws a shaky line of eyeliner that she erases, then tries again, then erases, and then gives one more attempt, before giving up by slamming the pencil onto the counter and putting her efforts into applying more blush.
She pulls herself into a short, tight dress. It's navy blue and has gotten her onto a second date before, which makes it luckier than any other piece of clothing she has. She studies herself in the mirror and decides, I look pretty. Her hair is falling right, the dress isn't too big or too small, and her makeup came out as good as it gets.
So she lifts her phone up and takes a photo. She's seen Callie do it like this, a photo of just her reflection. Mirror selfies, Misty thinks they're called.
The photo comes out slightly blurry, but Misty glances at the time and curses. She's supposed to meet this guy in five minutes, and it's a ten minute drive. She insisted on driving herself in case he is a creep, but maybe that was a bad decision.
She posts the photo on Instagram and rushes out the door to her car.
The date is bad. The guy is a creep, it turns out. She orders chicken picatta and his eyes go wide as he whispers, "You're fine eating meat, after everything?"
Then, when she asks him what he does for work, he's all evasive, saying something with media. A reporter, then. Probably a new one, given that he seems significantly younger than Misty.
"I have to take a call," she says after thirty minutes of evading attempts of talking about the 90s and Canada.
"Who is it?" He leans all the way over, peering his head over her phone. She hugs it close to her chest, frowning. Some people have no idea of manners.
"My friend."
"What's their name?"
Misty ignores him, grabs her bag, and heads toward the door. She can feel his eyes on her the whole time but doesn't give it a second of attention. He's harmless at the end of the day. A little nosy, too forward—he'll be a fine reporter, but he'd be an awful detective.
She sighs as she unlocks her car. Her life seems to be a bunch of wasted time recently. This might need to become a wake up call, that she can't keep hoping someone else can fill the void in her—
Holy shit. Her mouth gapes as she stares at her Instagram, because @NS1978, Natalie Scatorccio, rewatched the story of Misty in her date outfit thirty times.
Misty clicks off, then on again, and yes, it's still there. She closes the app, then reopens it. Nothing changes.
With shaking hands, she screenshots the notification. This is ten times the number of rewatches Nat gave her selfie. Does that mean this picture is ten times better? That Nat liked it ten times more? That seems logical.
Misty stares at it for another ten, then fifteen seconds, until she hears some ruckus from outside the restaurant and remembers right, she's technically running from a date. She pulls the car into drive and speeds all the way home, heart pumping.
When she gets into her driveway, it's empty. It's stupid, but she sort of…well, she had this idea, on the way back, that maybe Nat would be waiting for her. Thirty times is a lot, right? It means you really care about that person. So maybe she would visit.
But she doesn't. Misty keeps an eye on the window for a while before closing the blinds with a sigh. She reopens her phone and studies the notification again.
The thing is, the person Misty would ask about this kind of thing is Nat. She doesn't pick up the phone a lot, but she does more than anyone else, and when she does, she usually talks to her at least a little.
She runs through her other options—her parents are long dead, Tai would immediately hang up, Shauna wouldn't answer the text, Van's trying to go off the map, and Lottie's still in Switzerland.
Well, that does it. She opens her text messages, finds Nat's contact (complete with a picture Misty stole off the Internet, since they haven't seen each other in person in forever), and types: Did you like what I posted?
She frowns, then deletes it. It's too direct for Nat. It also reminds her of what a guy texted her after she liked something of his on Facebook. They went on one date, but he was weird—he hated the gym, and Misty's always wanted someone sporty. She definitely doesn't want to sound like him to Natalie.
Instead, she writes: Does it mean anything if someone rewatches your story 30 times?
There, that's vague enough. Misty sends it with a satisfied nod. She doesn't expect Natalie to answer immediately, that's not like her, so she climbs into bed and places the phone delicately on her nightstand.
And then it buzzes.
She hasn't even closed her eyes yet. She lurches up, grabs it, unlocks it, and it is Nat. Of course it is, there was no other option unless her boss decided to tell her they didn't need her for tomorrow's shift.
Her eyes focus on the message as she tries to keep the beating of her heart to a minimum.
Idk.
That's all Nat writes. Misty sinks back into her mattress, sighing.
But then another message comes through: It depends who it is and what you posted. They might have just kept opening it by accident.
But it could be on purpose? Misty texts back.
There's a pause where all Misty sees is the bubble of Nat texting. It disappears one second, then reappears the next, until: Yeah.
Would you do it on purpose? Misty stares as she types out the words. Maybe she shouldn't send them, but she needs to know. She always wants to know everything about Nat, but she especially wants to know this. She sends it.
Nat responds quickly this time: Yaeh.
From anyone else, such an obvious spelling mistake would be a major red flag, as Callie might say. But Misty smiles at it, imagines Nat typing it out quickly, fingers sliding across the screen.
Nat doesn't type anything else, and Misty cradles her phone against her chest as she goes to sleep.