She’d become a ghost in her own life. Clients couldn’t tag her. A gallery feature in Seoul was pending, but the curator couldn't DM her. Her mother’s birthday passed—the first one since the funeral. She couldn't post the annual tribute: a photo of her mother laughing in a mustard-yellow saree, frosting on her nose. That photo existed only on Instagram’s servers. She had deleted the original from her phone years ago to save space. The digital original was gone. The only copy was held hostage.
A human email. Actually human—it had a name: Rohan, Instagram Support. “We’ve reviewed your appeal and restored access to your account. We apologize for the inconvenience. Please enable two-factor authentication and revoke access to any third-party apps immediately.” Her hands shook as she logged in. instagram your account has been temporarily locked
She still uses Instagram. But every time she sees the loading spinner, she feels a flicker of vertigo. The lock is gone. But the cage left a scar. She’d become a ghost in her own life
She finally found the “Report a Problem” form. A tiny text box. No live agent. No phone number. She typed a novel—a raw, trembling confession of her mother’s recent death, how the account was a memorial, how every lost photo felt like losing her again. She hit send. An automated reply: “Thanks for your report. We’ll review it and get back to you if we find anything.” Her mother’s birthday passed—the first one since the