Scrolling with one eye ******* shut does little to assuage the assault on my heart from squares of millennial pink and sky blue, espresso black and prosecco effervescence in fancy glasses on bar tables I'm not invited to join.

Never was anyone's first in line which didn't matter until I realised how much time there is to fill as the days stretch on and nights begin to warm offering ample opportunity for connection and yet I sit satellite orbiting a world reopening for some and remain on the outside, cold and distant.

Vulnerability is the essence of connection and connection is the lifesource of happiness, now engineered quasi-chonologically; machine-picked priority in heart buttons and view counts as we no longer value the time spent thinking, mere lingering hesitation- am I worth no more than a momentary pause as your thumb swipes upward?

It's easier to publish vulnerability on social media platforms whose algorithms inherently work against visibility of raw honesty and hurt than risking rejection from the people I desperately want to hold me, see the cracks in my facade and enjoy me in my dilapidation while my world edges crumble.

Isn't that something