For the sixth time that minute, I idly tapped my phone screen and watched as the disconcertingly bright light of my wallpaper faded into a cold, endless voice of onyx black once more. I silently hoped for something, anything, any new notification, to bring back the light that seemed to have departed from my phone screen as well as my life. And yet, my phone remained devoid of any new messages, contacts or even app notifications. Nothing. I let my phone drop from my hand and sunk further, wallowing in my own self-pity, into the warm embrace of my sofa. But then, as though through some divine intervention, my phone illuminated the room of its own accord, and I hastily reached for it, scrabbling quickly to open my phone like how a cat might chase a mouse. I opened Instagram, drawing a bated breath as I checked my following list. Sure enough, a new account had followed me – A seemingly generic profile, a boy around my age dressed in a grey hoodie and black tracksuit joggers facing outwards from the camera, as if shielding himself from the screen. I followed him back immediately and waited for a message. The first text arrived all too soon, and I promptly sent the second. His response was the third, and before I knew it, I was caught up in a torrent of messages, back and forth, a never-ending conversation that made me feel like I had transcended to another planet. He told me he was sixteen, in the year above me at school, and had seen me around several times. He was funny, the words that fell from his hands to the screen were always the ones I wanted to hear and when his messages became more friendly, I felt inclined to reciprocate. I felt elated, my senses on a new high, finally receiving the attention I had craved for much of my life. And so, when he asked, I sent them. And when I woke in the morning, he was not the only one on the receiving end of these incriminating photos. I found them plastered on every group chat I was on, my inbox flooded with spiteful remarks and all too appreciative comments as the sheer horror of what had happened set in, my thoughts and my phone a frenzy of those same photos, the same messages, the same lies. All at the hands of the same person I believed saw even a fraction of my real self for once in my life. I sat down on my sofa once again; the warmth of the cushions I once sought comfort from doing nothing to relinquish the frigid cold I felt all over my body. My phone remained in my hand as my tears glistened, dropped and finally hit the screen of my phone. My screen lit up for the sixth time that minute, and I knew it would not turn dark again.