Space between the scrolls

Children pulled from rubble in Gaza, dust-white faces against red bricks—

Mia's fuchsia silk dress flowing against Amalfi's electric blue, #blessed #livingmybestlife—

Then another of Mia's. The gelato display at some historic gelato shop. She's added a poll to it: "Help me choose!" Results: 67% pistachio, 33% Stracciatella, so far—

BREAKING: Training jet crash in a school in Dhaka, seven confirmed dead including pilot—

I pause. Dhaka. The word stops my breath. I call Maa even before I realise I'm moving.

Two rings.

Three now.

Then she picks up. No, nowhere near us.

It is far from our usual routes and addresses. Diabari. Not Dhanmondi where Maa lives. Not Mohammadpur where my brother is training. Not Basundhara where Nana's hospital is.

"Thank god," I breathe, then immediately feel sick. What am I thanking Him for exactly? For the pilot losing control over someone else's neighbourhood instead of mine? For the catastrophe choosing strangers over family?

I can see them so clearly it hurts. Toddlers and teenagers in those crisp blue-and-white uniforms, sitting in rows, copying down equations, reciting poems. Did they look up first? Did they think it was just a low-flying plane before the world exploded into metal and fire and screaming? Were they reaching for each other when hell came down? I scroll frantically, desperately, begging the algorithm to show me anything else, to let me escape what my mind keeps building. And honestly, I don't even have to try too much.

Irina, my Dutch friend working in Prague, posted a photo of her new matcha latte art skills. Foam swirled into perfect leaves. "The barista life chose me," she writes—

Then more of Irina. Her selfie with a bright red bandana tied around her head.

I actually pause at that bandana. Serious Y2K vibes, very Lorelai Gilmore coded. I should get one. Will Shein have one? But then everyone will know it's fast fashion. Maybe Etsy instead? But that's expensive, and for what? A piece of fabric?

And just like that, I've moved from dead children to fashion accessories. The feed has trained me well, to skip between realities without processing any of them fully.

Another scroll—a heated debate thread: "It was clearly mechanical failure" "No, pilot error, look at the data" "The government has failed at..." "No, it's the previous government who..."

The internet is already feeding on blame. My mind joins in without permission. Blame is so much simpler than grief. So much cleaner than imagining small charred bodies in blue uniforms. So much easier than holding space for senseless loss. I, too, let it happen. I choose the comfortable anger of someone else's failure over the unbearable weight of children dying for nothing. But the anger fades way faster than I expect. The feed has other plans. It always does.

Roman Bhai has just posted a photo of his new-born. "Can't believe she's finally here." The baby's face is covered with a heart sticker, while he and her wife, Tithi Bhabi, both are kissing her tiny forehead.

I should send something for the baby. What should I send? Something from Belfast? But Manchester has everything Belfast has. Different accents, but the same Boots, same Tesco, same TK Maxx, same packages of capitalism shipped to identical high streets. Maybe something local then? Something distinctly Northern Irish? But what's a new-born going to do with local crafts anyway? Should I get something for Bhabi instead? Some new mum care package? But that feels more in the baby-shower territory. And honestly, she's probably drowning in gifts already. She's always posting about her lovely neighbours dropping off homemade curries, her work colleagues surprising her with spa vouchers, her university friends planning elaborate celebration dinners. Who would guess she only moved there two years ago? Meanwhile, I'm still having polite departmental coffee conversations and wondering if I'll ever belong anywhere completely.

Sara's dissertation defence stories come next. First her desk, set up with color-coded sticky notes and a perfectly positioned coffee mug. Then her victory selfie after nailing the defense. Then the celebration—her whole family squeezed around a dining table for the selfie, three generations laughing with mouths full, her dad's arm around her, her elder brother reaching across the table for more food.

I zoom in. Zami Bhai, Sara's elder brother, looks older now, with his face fuller and neatly trimmed beard. For most of my teenage years, I thought he was the most handsome man to ever walk the earth. In the photo, his hand is extended toward the bowl of tehari at the centre. Sara's amma used to pack this exact tehari in a dented metal container for school tiffin. I'd gobble my noodles up in five minutes flat while Sara would eat slowly, methodically, then quietly slide her remaining half toward me. She was always like that—more caring, more patient. Should I call her to congratulate properly? Or would a text suffice? Maybe I should post a story celebrating her achievement, let everyone know my brilliant friend is now Doctor Sara. But that feels performative, turning her moment into my content. I wonder if this is the digital friendship paralysis: too many options for connection, yet none feels quite right.

The algorithm serves me Mia's fourth story now: a bathroom mirror selfie with a face mask. Her fancy skin care regimen is very much visible on the bathroom counter.

This does not look like a hostel or an Airbnb, or is she staying in a hotel this time? That must cost a fortune in this economy!

Back to Dhaka: three more children have died in between my scrolls.

A friend has posted a fundraiser link for Gaza, with thermometer showing they've only reached 31% of their goal—

I screenshot the fundraiser link with the automatic reflex of someone who cares, knowing well that this image will join that digital graveyard of good intentions I never follow through. The guilt settles heavy in my stomach, mixing uncomfortably with the tehari craving.

Mia again: sunset from hotel balcony, feet propped up, toes painted coral. "Dinner at this little place the concierge recommended!"

The children in Gaza don't have concierges. Some don't have feet anymore. I try to blink it away. Focus on the coral polish. The perfect pedicure. The luxury of choice.

Roman bhai hearts my 'congratulations' comment.

"You'll look so good in the gingham one!" Irina replies to my bandana enquiry and attaches  the website link she bought it from.

Parents are still looking for their kids in the rubbles,44 hospitalised, investigation ongoing.

I set the phone down. For three seconds, I try to hold it all—the screams, the children, Mia's fuchsia dress, and the Y2K bandana. But the weight splits my attention like a fault line. And I pick my phone up again. The feed refreshes, serves me tragedies and trivialities shuffled like cards, dealt in new combinations. Death, coffee, birth, crash, champagne, rubble, laughter, screaming.

I scroll. Of course, I scroll. What else was ever going to happen? What else was I ever going to do?

Tabassum Islam Susmi occasionally writes for Star Books and Literature.