A few days ago, I sat at a neighborhood café in Buenos Aires, practicing my Spanish grammar. The café’s tall, modern windows bathed the rustic tables with sunlight. It was the afternoon, during Merienda—a time when friends and family gather for coffee and treats. Two young girls entered and sat at the table next to mine. One dressed casually in a charcoal sweater, blue jeans, and white New Balance sneakers. The other wore an elegant black-and-white dress, nylon leggings, and leather boots. They picked up their menus with the precision of food critics at a fancy restaurant. Before placing their orders, they called for the manager and asked a few questions. I couldn’t follow the conversation, but it sounded like they were discussing dietary restrictions and allergies.
As they waited for their food, they chatted, but their eyes remained glued to their iPhones. Occasionally, they’d break away to show each other something on their screens. The sound of one girl scrolling through social media shorts was just loud enough for me to hear.
A waitress arrived and carefully placed their plates one by one. They had ordered avocado toast with poached eggs, freshly squeezed orange juice, two Flat Whites, and a large medialuna. The vibrant colors of each dish reminded me of an artist’s palette—each plate a miniature work of art. My own table seemed dull in comparison, and I found myself distracted by their lives. I turned back to my textbook, trying to ignore their conversation, when something strange struck me.
Fifteen minutes had passed, and they hadn’t touched their food.
Instead of enjoying the present moment, they were busy capturing it on their phones. They rearranged their plates like interior designers staging a room, searching for the perfect composition. They took close-up photos, choreographed videos, and posed for selfies in turn. At one point, the girl in the elegant dress stepped outside to snap a picture of the café’s exterior, making sure the logo was in frame. When she returned, she began editing photos and videos, seeking her friend’s input before finally posting an Instagram story.
But it wasn’t just any story. It was a crafted narrative: This is my life. Look how wonderful it is. I’m enjoying it. And behind that narrative, a question lingered for her audience: Are you enjoying your life? Is it as wonderful as mine?
Finally, they allowed themselves to eat, but their eyes still flicked to their phones to check who had liked their posts. The irony was hard to miss. Every time they opened Instagram, they saw other people’s highlight reels—just like their own. Except it wasn’t a café, but a wedding, a celebration, an accomplishment, a gym selfie. And so, the cycle of social comparison and curated perfection continued.
Today, this behavior has become the norm, and we’ve forgotten the importance of being present. Social media has reshaped our relationships, social status, and even our perception of reality. It feels as though we’re living in a Black Mirror episode, unaware of the hard lesson ahead: likes and followers aren’t what truly matter in life.
Remember this story next time you’re out in public. Notice how people spend their time on their phones. Notice how many parents place a screen in front of their kids so they can focus on their own. This is your call to action: turn off your phone and be present. Don’t do it just for yourself—do it for the people around you.