Filtered Love Chapter 1

Four years into our long-distance relationship, I was on a video call with my girlfriend when her study partner, Chase, leaned into the camera frame.

He pressed his lips together. "Hey, Tyler. Brooke hasn’t finished her practice set for today."

I froze for a second, the words Just give us ten minutes dying on my tongue.

Before I could speak, he chimed in again. "Oh, by the way, those entertainment gossip links you sent earlier today—I went ahead and filtered them out for her. The second she looks at her phone, her focus completely shatters, and her study efficiency drops by half." A faint smile touched his lips. "You don't mind me stepping in, do you?"

Brooke kept her head down, flipping through her prep book without a word of protest.

A hollow ache settled in my chest.

I thought back to the photos of sunsets, the hole-in-the-wall diners, the new console I’d bought—all the things I had shared with her that she never answered.

They hadn't been ignored. They had been cleaned out.

A heavy tightness gripped my ribs, suffocating and dull.

Brooke finally looked up at the screen. "Chase organizing my notifications is actually a good thing."

Chase leaned in closer to the webcam, his voice dropping low. "Word is you barely cracked an 1100 on your SATs back in high school, but Brooke scored in the 1500s..." He paused, as if deliberately searching for gentler words. "She always says she wants to end up in the same city as you for grad school. But your grades are so far behind hers—she’d literally have to settle and drag herself down just to meet you."

Having said his piece, he stepped back beside Brooke and gave her shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze. "Keep pushing. I'm right here with you."

Brooke nodded at him, her expression soft and completely natural—the casual ease of two people who had grown entirely accustomed to standing side by side.

My throat tightened, as though a thin wire were slowly choking the air out of me.

"Get some rest, then," I managed to say, clinging to the last shred of my dignity before hanging up.

My phone screen remained lit, showing the last text I had sent her: It's raining today. Remember to grab a jacket.

Beside it, no reply.

Just like the past four years.

She had never been absent from her own life. She had only been absent from mine.

I closed FaceTime, my fingers trembling as I scrolled through our chat history.

Line after line, it was an endless monologue.

I sent her evening skies, the takeout I’d picked up, the stray ginger cat lounging on the sidewalk outside my dorm. Her replies were few and far between.

A dry k after several hours. A lukewarm sounds good two days later. Most of the time, just a thumbs-up emoji.

I closed the thread and pulled up her profile.

Her cover photo had changed.

It used to be a selfie of the two of us on New Year’s Eve. Now, it was a snapshot from an academic awards banquet. Chase stood right beside her, their shoulders tipped toward each other, looking like the picture-perfect power couple.

A sudden sting burned behind my eyes. I blinked hard to force the tears back, but one slipped down my cheek anyway.

Just as I went to lock my phone, a banner notification popped up from Chase.

Tyler, man, I've been thinking about this for a while, and I think it's time someone told you. If you really care about Brooke, stop spamming her with every little thought that crosses your mind. She studies past midnight every single day. Every time her phone buzzes, she can't help checking it, and then it takes her ten minutes just to get back into the zone.

Sending her pictures of stray cats and your dinner... it serves zero purpose. She doesn't want to reply, but she feels guilty ignoring you, so she spends mental energy agonizing over it. Do you have any idea how draining that is for her?

Her target grad program has an insanely high cutoff, and you're so far behind. How many all-nighters does she have to pull to bridge that gap? You claim you're doing this for her own good, but which part of what you do is actually helping her?

I stared at the screen, every word lodging into my chest like a needle.

I typed out a response, deleted it, and in the end only sent back one sentence: Does she... know you're sending this to me?

His reply came instantly. Of course she does. She told me you keep sending irrelevant nonsense, but she was too nice to say it to your face because she didn't want to bruise your ego. She asked me to relay it.

I stared at the words She asked me to relay it, my throat closing up completely.

A second text followed immediately: Oh, and she told me to tell you—don't call during study hours from now on. If it's urgent, text. She'll see it, but she won't necessarily reply. Try to be understanding.

Possessed by a reckless impulse, I clicked onto Chase’s public feed.

His latest post was from yesterday: a photo inside a bustling hot pot restaurant. Brooke was sitting across from him, using her chopsticks to drop food into his bowl. The caption read: Weekend fuel with the top student.

I scrolled down. Last week, it was a hiking trail, the two of them flashing peace signs at the summit.

Further back, under blooming cherry blossoms, inside a late-night study lounge, at a newly opened arcade—she was in every single photo.

The same Brooke who constantly told me, I don't have time, and I'm swamped with studying.

She didn't lack time. She was simply giving it all to someone else.

The reason I had called her tonight was to tell her that I’d been granted early admission to the graduate program in her city. I wouldn’t have to wait for her replies across a screen anymore.

Now, those words remained lodged in my throat, aching like a blunt blade.

I typed out three words and hit send.

Let's break up.