文/Callie+Schweitzer+譯/Lily

The most serious relationship of my life so far ended last summer without a trace—physically at least. There was no ceremonious “return of the stuff” because there was nothing to return. No boxes of photos and trinkets1）， no mix tapes， nothing.

There was， however， an extensive virtual trail： thousands of IMs2）， texts， tweets， Facebook pictures and Instagram posts. And thats a lot harder to get rid of than a toothbrush. Love might die， but its digital counterpart never does. Theres just no way to completely scrub3） your digital self from a relationship in 2014， no quick way to sever4） digital ties once theyve been formed and no easy way to tell your social media networks that youre no longer together.

Of course you can untag pictures and break up on Facebook， but for those whove shared a lot， the digital impression of couplehood remains very much alive. That presence has been established so publicly that theres no way to maintain an “out of this relationship” message proclaiming， “In case you missed it， we are broken up！”

For people who live online like I do， the very lifecycle of a breakup has been redefined. Its not enough to put someone out of your mind—you must allow for others to notice the slow fade of that persons presence on your feeds. Eventually theres the hushed question： “Did you guys break up？ I noticed hes not in any of your pictures anymore.” People almost sound ashamed to have noticed， but perhaps its the sharers who are ashamed for having documented the love affair so completely and publicly in the first place.

Our social media trails are an incredibly intimate digital diary that we allow the entire world to click through. So its not surprising that for many of us dating has become performance art， and both our closest friends and our most casual acquaintances have a front row seat. This is particularly true for millennials like me whove grown up with the idea of having an audience of friends and supporters and expecting instant and constant feedback—whether its coming from our mother or a person we once knew at summer camp. Its part of our DNA. But its hard not to wonder whether that craving for approval from all those far-flung5） friends is changing the way we bond and interact with the people we love.

Weve all grown accustomed to seeing others chronicle their personal milestones like proposals， marriage and babies. What would have been a private moment 15 years ago is now a public achievement as well. And the rewards are tangible： Facebook is engineered to elicit6） an emotional high， but the constant comparisons make us sadder， less satisfied and more sensitized to the lives of others. “Fear of missing out”—once reserved for the party pictures we knew would come if we stayed home on a Saturday night—has progressed to a gut7） concern over the life stage we think we should have reached based on what our high school and college friends are sharing on Facebook.

It is in this hothouse of competition that we create a second， vibrant form of ourselves online. We cultivate the image of a happy couple or simply a very happy person with many friends. Every day we declare who we are with a simple retweet or post. Every day we curate8） our digital personas9）. And yet its incomplete. No one captures their tiffs10） or disagreements and boasts about them on social media—we keep those skeletons11） in our virtual closets. We become “Facebook official” as evidence of couplehood， and yet， the mere act of changing that status can feel so painful： a public proclamation of something that no longer exists. （Why does Facebook give you 12 options for changing your relationship status and only one way to like something？）

And while the public-facing relationship， documented day after day， might have looked perfect， a breakup forces us to reconcile our public selves with the private heartbreak. All the tweeting and texting and posting communication stops and the performance meets reality. All of the supportive likes and “you look so happy together” comments start to feel empty. And the ego-boosting affirmation that came with them turns to a uniquely public form of embarrassment. In fact， some of the moments we regret most on Facebook involve the “emotional” content tied to dating and relationships. Watching our Facebook “Look Back” videos is a reminder of just how much weve chronicled12）， and maybe some memories we “might not want to actually remember.” It wont be long before we have a presidential candidate whose high school Facebook photos are held against13） him or her.

But perhaps theres already a backlash14） to this kind of performance underway with the rising popularity of anonymity apps like Whisper and Secret or the disappearing documentation of apps like Snapchat.

And while I often preach the importance of online authenticity15）， Im left questioning what the digital age can and cannot capture， and what we are even trying to capture in the first place. So much of life is too complicated and messy and complex to be portrayed publicly， and relationships certainly fall into that category. I wonder if it is the braver and bolder decision to hold on to our privacy.

去年夏天，我生命中迄今為止最當真的一段感情不留痕跡地結(jié)束了——至少現(xiàn)實中如此。沒有出現(xiàn)儀式性的“歸還物品”情節(jié)，因為根本無物可還。沒有一盒盒的照片和小玩意兒，沒有自編的混音帶，什么都沒有。

然而，我們卻留下了大量的虛擬痕跡：成千上萬的即時訊息、短信、推文、Facebook上的照片和Instagram中的發(fā)帖。除掉這些比扔掉一個牙刷困難多了。愛情也許會消亡，但是它對應的數(shù)字形式卻永遠不會。你根本無法將數(shù)字化的自己從2014年的戀愛關系中完全抹去，無法迅速切斷業(yè)已形成的數(shù)字化紐帶，也無法云淡風輕地在你的社交媒體網(wǎng)絡中宣布你們已經(jīng)不在一起了。

當然，你可以撤除照片的標簽，在Facebook上分手，但是對那些分享過很多東西的人而言，情侶身份在網(wǎng)絡上給人留下的印象仍舊栩栩如生。這種印象已經(jīng)在公眾面前如此根深蒂固，以至于你根本沒法維持“這段感情已結(jié)束”的信息，并宣布：“怕你們不知道說一聲哈，我們分手了！”

對于像我一樣生活在網(wǎng)絡中的人來說，分手所特有的生命周期已經(jīng)被重新定義了。將某人從你的心里移除是不夠的——你必須讓他人也注意到那個人已逐漸淡出你發(fā)布的帖子。最后，他們會悄聲問：“你倆分手了嗎？我發(fā)現(xiàn)你發(fā)的所有照片里都不再有他的身影了?！甭犐先ト藗儙缀醵紴樽⒁獾竭@件事覺得難為情了，但也許感到難為情的是那些發(fā)布者，因為是他們首先那么完整地公開記錄了戀愛的點滴。

我們在社交媒體中留下的痕跡是極為私密的數(shù)字化日記，允許全世界點擊瀏覽。因此不足為奇的是，對我們許多人來說，約會已變成一種表演藝術(shù)，無論是我們最親密的好友還是最隨意的泛泛之交都可以在前排就座觀看。對于像我一樣的“千禧一代”來說，情況尤為如此。我們在成長過程中抱有一種想法：朋友和捧場的人是我們的觀眾，我們期待即時和連續(xù)不斷的反饋——無論這反饋來自媽媽還是夏令營中曾結(jié)識的某個人。這是我們與生俱來的特質(zhì)。但人們難免懷疑，這種渴望得到所有那些遠方朋友贊賞的心態(tài)是否正在改變我們與所愛的人相處和互動的方式。

我們都變得習慣于見證他人記錄個人生活中里程碑式的事件，比如求婚、結(jié)婚、生子。15年前被視為隱私的時刻如今也成了一種公開的成就?；貓笫乔袑嵱行蔚模篎acebook的設計旨在引起情感高漲，但不斷的攀比卻讓我們更加難過，更加不滿足，對他人的生活也更加敏感?！板e失恐懼”原來專門用于描述我們周六晚上待在家里的話看到別人聚會照片時的心態(tài)（我們知道這種照片會紛至沓來），現(xiàn)在卻已發(fā)展為一種來自心底的擔憂，擔心自己未達到我們自認為本該達到的人生階段。對于這一階段的判斷則基于我們的高中和大學同學在Facebook上分享了什么。

正是在這個競爭的溫床中，我們在網(wǎng)絡上創(chuàng)造了另一個活力四射的自己。我們樹立起一對幸福情侶的形象，或僅僅是一個好友成群的非常幸福之人的形象。每一天，我們都通過簡單的轉(zhuǎn)發(fā)或發(fā)帖宣告著自己是誰。每一天，我們都精挑細選地展示著自己數(shù)字化的表面形象。然而這并不是全部。沒有人會在社交媒體上描述自己的爭執(zhí)或分歧并就此夸耀——我們將那些丑事關在了虛擬的壁櫥里。我們把Facebook上的感情狀態(tài)作為情侶關系的證明，但僅僅改變這種狀態(tài)就會讓人很痛苦：這是公開宣布某些東西已不復存在。（為什么Facebook提供了12種改變感情狀態(tài)的選項，卻只有一種方法來表達喜歡？）

這種日復一日記錄下來的面向公眾的感情也許曾經(jīng)看起來完美，但一旦分手，我們就要被迫調(diào)和自己的公眾形象與內(nèi)心傷痛之間的矛盾。所有的推文、短信和發(fā)帖交流都戛然而止，作秀遭遇了現(xiàn)實。所有表示支持的“贊”和“你們看起來真幸?！敝惖脑u論都開始讓人感覺空洞。而隨“贊”和評論而來的那些讓人自我膨脹的肯定都轉(zhuǎn)化成一種獨有的公開的尷尬。事實上，我們在Facebook上感到最后悔的某些時刻就包括發(fā)布那些與約會和戀愛有關的“感情”內(nèi)容。觀看Facebook上的“回顧”視頻可以提醒我們曾記錄了多少內(nèi)容，或許某些回憶我們“可能并不想真的記住”。過不了多久，就會有某個總統(tǒng)候選人會因為其高中時代在Facebook上發(fā)布的照片而備受責備。

但也許對這種作秀行為的抵制已經(jīng)慢慢出現(xiàn)，匿名應用軟件如“私語”和“秘密”越來越受歡迎，Snapchat之類應用軟件的“閱后即焚”功能也越來越受歡迎。

雖然我經(jīng)常宣揚網(wǎng)絡信息的真實性多么重要，卻也開始思考數(shù)字化時代中能夠和不能獲取的信息是什么，以及我們原本試圖獲取的是什么。生活中有很多東西都太晦澀、凌亂、復雜，我們無法將其公開演繹，情侶關系當然就包括在內(nèi)。我想知道，是否堅守個人隱私才是更加勇敢無畏的決定。

1. trinket [?tr??k?t] n. 小裝飾物；小玩意兒

2. IM：即時訊息，instant message的縮略

3. scrub [skr?b] vt. 擦掉，刷掉

4. sever [?sev?（r）] vt. 斷絕，中斷

5. far-flung：遙遠的

6. elicit [??l?s?t] vt. 引起

7. gut [ɡ?t] adj. （感情等）發(fā)自內(nèi)心深處的；直覺的

8. curate [?kj??re?t] vt. 從眾多可能的事物中挑選以供他人欣賞

9. persona [p?（r）?s??n?] n. （同本人真實品格不一的）表面形象

10. tiff [t?f] n. （夫妻或朋友間無關緊要的）爭執(zhí)，口角

11. skeleton [?skel?t（?）n] n. （不可外揚的）丑事

12. chronicle [?kr?n?k（?）l] vt. 記錄，記載

13. hold against：因……而責怪

14. backlash [?b?k?l??] n. 強烈反應；強烈抵制

15. authenticity [???θen?t?s?ti] n. 可靠性；真實性