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Belinda. I was 15. Bebo was life. Facebook was new. I made a fake account and called her Belinda. Borrowed the name, borrowed the face, borrowed a whole person I wasn’t. Last login: September 2008. It’s been 17 years. I got curious today. Wondered if Facebook deletes inactive accounts by itself. Wondered if Belinda got wiped. Turns out: no. Facebook doesn’t clean house. Accounts just sit there. Digital fossils. I don’t remember the email. Don’t remember the password. Don’t even remember what fake last name I gave her. She’s locked in there, and I don’t have the key. And that’s fine. I could report her as fake. I could send letters to Meta. I could chase a ghost from 2008. But why? She’s not me. She’s not tied to Maryam. She can’t hurt me. She can’t embarrass me. She’s just a timestamp of who I was at 15: bored, curious, trying on identities like clothes at the mall. 2008 Belinda stays in 2008. 2026 Maryam is here. With Ranya. With boundaries. With a real name I chose to protect. Some doors don’t need closing because I never really walked through them. Some people don’t need deleting because I never really was them. Let her rest. I’m good.