"You like my girlfriend," I said slowly, the realization dawning. "Or… you like what she represents."

"The difference between us," she said, standing. "She performs for an audience. I perform for no one. Or maybe just for myself."

She walked toward the back exit, the one that led to a graffiti-scarred alley and the real, un-curated city. Halfway there, she paused. Looked back.

And for the first time in two years, I didn't check my phone for likes.

"I know her type," Meana replied. She finally took a sip of her drink. I still don’t know what it was. "She collects experiences the way other people collect stamps. She’s not living that life. She’s presenting it. And you… you’re the key prop. The moody boyfriend in the background of her highlight reel. The one who makes her seem deep."

I loved her. Or I loved the idea of her. The difference was getting harder to see.

"Sorry?"