The Ides of March

"Et tu, Brute?"

-William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar

Hi. I'm Savannah Rae. If you're here because you follow me, you probably think you know me already. Maybe you've watched my GRWMs or saved my apartment tour or liked that one video of me crying in a bathroom stall that ended up on every reaction channel on the internet. Maybe you've called me brave, messy, or both.

But before the followers, before the sponsorships and filters and comments that read like love letters from strangers, I was just a girl with a cracked phone screen and a list of things I wasn't supposed to feel.

I grew up learning how to make myself palatable. Keep it pretty. Keep it light. Don't be too loud. Don't be too soft. Smile like you mean it, even when the world is falling apart behind your eyes. And if someone hurts you, you don't break. You brand. You turn it into content. Caption the pain. Light it just right. Add music.

So that's what I did.

I built an empire out of aesthetics and survival. Lifestyle, fashion, travel, skincare. If it fit in a sixty-second frame or made someone say "goals," I made it mine. I paid off my loans before twenty-three. I signed with brands most girls dream of. People recognized me at airports, at brunch, in the frozen food aisle. My face was familiar, even when my heart wasn't.

But here's the truth I never posted: being seen is not the same as being known. Not really. The likes filled the silence, but not the ache. I gave the world a curated version of myself, and it clapped. Loudly. But when the ring light turned off and the lashes came off, I'd sit alone in a perfectly styled room wondering why none of it felt like enough.

I wasn't looking for anything when it happened. Not love. Not redemption. Not some life-altering night in a Midwestern club. I was just doing what I always do, observing. Documenting. Trying to make sense of the world in pixels and paragraphs. But that night, I saw something real. Something I couldn't scroll past.

For the first time, I didn't just film it.

I felt it.

I landed just past noon and already wanted to crawl into the hotel bed and forget the whole damn city existed. Day four of my Midwest tour, and my brain felt like it had been microwaved. I still had eyeliner smudged behind one ear from last night's shoot in Chicago, and my body was one mild inconvenience away from mutiny. But this was the job. Content doesn't sleep. Neither do algorithms. So I peeled myself off the too-stiff mattress and stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Hoodie? Check. Thrifted jeans? Check. Glasses slipping down my nose like they were trying to escape? Also check.

This wasn't for the camera. Not tonight. No trending audio. No fifteen-second transitions. Just me in the real world, scouting nightlife for my new series, Midnight Heartland. The concept was simple. Hidden gems, off-grid fashion, vibes over VIP. But the execution? Exhausting. Every club blurred together lately. Neon, overpriced cocktails, someone named Chad trying to sell me bottle service like I wouldn't torch his entire marketing strategy on TikTok if provoked.

Still, I had a checklist. Energy. Lighting. Crowd dress code. Would the space photograph well? Could a girl film a transition without stepping in gum or getting groped? Was there potential for that one perfect, unplanned, thirty-second reel that made people think God, I need to be there? That was the magic. Manufactured spontaneity. It was harder than it looked.

I tossed on my denim jacket and stepped into the hallway, trying not to make eye contact with myself in the mirror by the elevator. I looked tired. Not in a cute, candlelit coffee filter kind of way. Just real tired. My skin was dull, my lips were chapped, and my hair was in a bun that looked like it gave up halfway through getting ready. I could already hear the comments if I filmed anything like this: Savannah, you okay? You look tired. That was code for: Put the lashes back on, babe.

Outside, the wind was sharp enough to make my nose run before I reached the rideshare. I didn't even ask the driver to drop me at the front. Let the world see me walk in like a background extra in my own story. I liked it that way tonight. The influencer switch was off. This was reconnaissance, research, whatever helped me justify standing in a loud room at 9:45 p. m. when all I really wanted was warm noodles and an old sitcom.

The club was tucked between a steakhouse and some bar with one of those chalkboard signs that said, "Trust me, you need a drink." I wasn't so sure I did. The line was short, the bass was thumping, and the lighting outside was soft amber, giving it decent ambiance. I paid cover, stepped inside, and immediately clocked the interior: low ceilings, dim booths, sharp uplighting, decent LED rotation on the dance floor. Not the worst I'd seen.

No one noticed me. Not a single person looked twice. And I loved it. No flashes. No whispers. No drunk girl stumbling over to ask if I was "that girl from Insta who danced in a parking garage." I was a nobody here. Just a girl in glasses leaning against the bar, sipping soda from a straw and pretending she wasn't quietly cataloging everything from lighting angles to shoe choices.

I scanned the room, letting the noise wash over me like static. Couples danced. Groups hovered in corners. Phones lit up faces every few seconds. Somewhere behind my ribs, a familiar ache curled in. I hadn't even posted anything yet, and still I felt worn out by the idea of being perceived. Not just by strangers. By anyone. Especially the kind of people who said they loved you, then measured that love in how well you could serve their ego.

And yet, here I was. Watching, documenting, pretending I wasn't emotionally checked out of my own genre. Maybe I'd find a reason to care again. Maybe not. Either way, I was already inside. I'd give it twenty minutes before deciding if this place was worth shooting. Maybe something unexpected would happen. It usually did.

I found a booth near the back, just far enough from the speakers to avoid permanent hearing loss. It had a clean sightline to the dance floor and decent separation from the bar crowd. Perfect for staying invisible. I ordered a soda with lime, no alcohol. The bartender didn't blink, which I appreciated. Some nights you want a buzz. Other nights, you just want to be clear.

Once again I scanned the room. Trained habit. Who's here? What are they wearing? What's the vibe? There were a few try-hards in sequin dresses and platform heels, more than a couple of men who looked like they were hoping to catch a drunk mistake, and a handful of people actually enjoying themselves. But then, my eyes caught on a table of couples near the center of the room. Nothing flashy about them. Just good chemistry. Laughter, small touches, warm familiarity. And that's when I saw him.

He wasn't the loud one. He wasn't trying to dominate the table. He was just present, focused entirely on the woman next to him. She had on a blue dress that made her look elegant without screaming for attention. His eyes never left her. Not in a creepy, possessive way. In a way that said, you are the center of my galaxy. I'd seen men fake that look for cameras, for clout, for followers. But this wasn't performative. This was real. Soft. Devoted.

He leaned in as she spoke. Listened like every word meant something. Every now and then, he'd rest his hand on her shoulder or brush her wrist with his fingers, almost absentmindedly. Intimate, but casual. Like someone who'd touched her that way a thousand times and still hadn't gotten over how lucky he was. And maybe that was what hit me the hardest. He looked at her like he couldn't believe she still picked him.

I stared longer than I should have. Couldn't help it. Something about him, about the way he anchored himself to her presence, reached somewhere deep and unguarded in me. I didn't even know his name, but watching him look at her felt like hearing a love song I'd never learned the words to. My chest tightened. Not out of jealousy exactly. More like recognition or longing or both.

I thought I had that look once with someone until I realized he was saying the same lines to someone else, just off-camera. That memory never really left me.

I wanted that. That look. That safety. That certainty. The kind of quiet love you don't need to advertise because it already fills the room without trying. I'd built a whole career off curated connection, but watching him made me realize how hollow that sometimes felt. I wanted someone who saw me that way. Not the version of me with the lashes on and the ring light fired up. Me. Hoodie, glasses, ramen breath and all.

My phone buzzed with a reminder to check in on engagement stats. I didn't reach for it. I didn't take a picture. Didn't capture a moment. Not this time. This wasn't for the grid. It wasn't for the brand. It wasn't for anyone else.

It was just me, a plastic cup of flat soda, and a man I didn't know looking at his wife like she was something holy.

The lime in my drink had collapsed.

So had I.

Then the front door opened.

I noticed the shift in the room before I saw him. The collective ripple of attention, the tilt of heads, the tightening of postures that happens when someone magnetic walks in. And sure enough, there he was. Marc LaValliere. NFL tight end. Local hero. All swagger and spotlight, like charisma dressed in cologne. The women at the table I'd been watching straightened instantly. Lipstick reapplied. Hair tossed. It was almost textbook.

I didn't need to Google him. I'd dated a wide receiver from the Rams once, back when I still thought clout could be mistaken for character. The sex had been great in that forgettable, surface-level way. Like empty calories after a workout. He was beautiful and boring and always reaching for his phone when I started talking about anything real. I knew Marc's type the second he smiled, confident and practiced, about as emotionally nutritious as a shot of whipped cream.

Still, I watched. And this time, I recorded.

Not the whole room, just a corner of it. Just that one table. Just him. Jim, I heard someone call him. And Linda. They said her name like she was the headliner. I kept my phone low, resting against my thigh, barely tilted. Just enough to capture Marc approaching, his practiced walk and the way all eyes at the table locked onto him like he had just stepped out of a commercial in tight jeans and designer confidence.

Then he reached for Linda.

She hesitated. For half a second, her hand gripped the edge of the table. I saw it. So did Jim. She had been holding his hand just moments ago, smiling at him like he was her whole world. And now she was looking at Marc like he might be a new planet worth visiting. I stopped breathing. My phone didn't move.

Linda let go. Of the table. Of Jim. Of everything that mattered. She turned and placed her hand in Marc's. He led her to the dance floor like she was a prize he had already won. And Jim... God. The man folded in on himself without moving a muscle. His shoulders didn't slump. His expression didn't twist. But something in him just cracked.

I knew that feeling. I'd lived that exact moment. When someone you love suddenly, shockingly chooses someone else and you have no idea how long ago the choice was actually made. My soda sat untouched, the lime slice wilting. I couldn't take my eyes off Jim. His gaze tracked Linda the way a compass points north, even as she spun farther and farther away from him.

"Don't do this," I whispered, my voice barely audible even to myself. But no one heard me. Not Marc. Not Linda. Not Jim. He was watching his wife dance with another man, and no one else seemed to understand that the room had just become a crime scene.

I told myself I just needed a breather. Five minutes. Some water. Maybe splash my face and reset the urge to either cry or throw something. The restroom was tucked past the coat check, dimly lit and mercifully quiet. I slid into the last stall, locked the door, and sat down even though I didn't need to. My hands were shaking. Not from nerves or caffeine, but from something uglier. Something that felt like rage with nowhere to go.

I wasn't supposed to care this much. I didn't know him. Jim. I'd only just learned his name, and here I was hiding in a bathroom like I was the one being cheated on. But the image of his face when Linda walked away with Marc, that was burned into the back of my eyes. That kind of look doesn't come from losing a date. It comes from losing your person.

The door creaked open. Voices filtered in, casual at first. Heels clicked across tile. A zipper tugged. Then laughter, too sharp for the setting. I froze. Peered through the crack in the stall. It was Linda. Her dress still perfect. Her lipstick freshly reapplied. And Dee, I recognized her too. The kind with a rehearsed smile and eyes that calculated social currency like stock values.

I didn't mean to eavesdrop. I meant to leave. But then I heard Linda say it.

"He wants me to come home with him tonight."

Silence followed. Then a little giggle. Dee leaned closer, fixing her mascara like she was giving career advice.

"You should. Jim will get over it."

My stomach twisted. I pulled out my phone and hit record, barely thinking. My thumb trembled on the screen as I captured audio. I didn't know what I'd do with it. I just knew this shouldn't disappear into silence. Not like that.

Linda hesitated. "It's just... I didn't think it'd go this far, you know?"

Dee rolled her eyes. "Please. You looked amazing. He's a freaking celebrity. It's one night. Jim worships the ground you walk on. He'll bounce back."

I clenched my jaw until it hurt. The bathroom felt colder. Or maybe I just felt smaller. I didn't know Jim, but I knew that tone. That shrug-it-off logic. That casual rewriting of someone else's pain into a temporary inconvenience.

By the time they left, I was shaking. With anger. With guilt. Because I could have stopped her. Yelled. Stepped out and ruined it all. Instead, I sat there. Quiet. Shaking. And then I stood up, washed my face in silence, and walked out into a night I already knew I wouldn't forget.

Back on the edge of the dance floor, the music was still pulsing. The world hadn't shifted, but I had.

That's when I saw them slip out the back like it was a secret only they were in on. Linda's hand tucked into the crook of Marc's elbow, her head tilted just enough to look romantic. It wasn't. It was hollow and smug and wrong. I stood near a column, half in shadow, phone clenched in my hand like I could rewind reality if I held it tight enough. It didn't work. They left. She didn't look back.

Then I saw Jim. He was heading toward the bar, confusion written across his face. He stopped short when Dee intercepted him. I moved a little closer, kept to the edge of the crowd. I didn't want to record him, but I needed to document her. Dee. The apologist. The co-conspirator. The woman who smiled while her best friend walked out on the man who looked at her like she hung the stars.

I held my phone low and hit record just in time to catch Jim's voice. He sounded like someone trying not to fall apart in public.

"So if Asshole had picked you, as you wanted him to, you'd have done the same thing?"

I could barely breathe.

"I would," Dee answered, like it was something to be proud of.

"Does Dave know that?"

"No, and he doesn't need to, because I don't think it will ever happen."

"Maybe I should tell him."

Dee reached for him. Her voice softened.

"Jim, please don't. Don't think that way. I know you're hurting, but that won't help. Please come back to the table. Let us take your mind off it. You haven't danced with me all night, you know."

I wanted to scream. To drag her into the light and make her answer for every smug, manipulative word. But I didn't. I stood there, still, invisible. Just like when Linda walked away. Just like in the bathroom. My mouth stayed shut. My phone kept recording. And I hated myself for it.

Jim walked back to the table, and even from where I stood, I saw it. The shift. The moment he realized the whole group already knew. A circle of betrayal wrapped in polite smiles. He said something sharp and then pulled out cash. Tossed it on the table. Not angry. Just done. Then he turned and walked out. Alone.

I didn't film that part.

I couldn't.

I just stood there. Holding a forgotten drink and a useless phone and a weight in my chest that didn't belong to me, but hurt like it did.

I let it happen.

And I don't know why it hurts so much.

I couldn't remember the ride back to the hotel. The driver tried to make small talk, but I must have looked like I'd just crawled out of a wreck because he gave up and turned the music up instead. I was grateful. My brain couldn't process any more noise. The silence felt cleaner, like rinsing off poison in small doses. My fingers trembled as I swiped the keycard. I couldn't even blame the cold.

Once inside, I didn't turn on the lights. Just the lamp by the window. I peeled off my jacket, then my hoodie, collapsing onto the floor like gravity had finally won. The carpet scratched at my legs through my jeans. I sat cross-legged, glasses fogged, makeup streaked, and no ring light in sight. No edits tonight. No intro music. No branding overlay. Just me, my phone, and this thing in my chest I couldn't seem to put down.

I hit record. Front-facing camera. No filter.

My voice cracked before I got two words out.

"That man loved her."

"You could feel it. In how he looked at her. In how he held her hand. In how he watched her like she was magic."

"And she..."

My throat tightened. I pressed my palm to my chest like I could hold something broken together.

"She left him. Like he was nothing. Like he was a placeholder. Like love meant less than one night of attention from someone who didn't even see her."

"And the worst part? I let it happen."

I wiped my nose with the sleeve of my oversized shirt. The camera caught everything. The red eyes. The wreckage. The truth.

"Maybe I couldn't stop it. Maybe I didn't have the right."

"But I can make sure the world sees it."

My thumb hovered for just a second. Then I hit post.

I didn't check the comments. Didn't track the views. Didn't cross-link anything. I just set the phone down, crawled into bed fully clothed, and curled around the space I wish someone would have filled.

On the nightstand sat my drink from earlier. The soda was flat, the lime at the bottom now colorless, shriveled.

Just like the one back at the club.

Just like me.

And in the dark, I let myself cry for a stranger whose name I'd only just learned,

and for the part of me that knew exactly what it felt like to be chosen last, or not at all.

I woke to the sound of my phone vibrating like it was trying to escape the nightstand. Blurry-eyed, I reached for it. Notifications stacked like dominos. Mentions. Shares. Duets. Stitches. Edits layered with moody music and slow-motion recaps of a night that wasn't theirs, but had somehow become everyone's. My video had gone viral. The numbers didn't look real. Neither did the comments; angry, aching, feral.

"This broke me."

"Who leaves someone who looks at them like that?"

"Name her. We'll handle the rest."

I hadn't named anyone. I didn't need to. The internet had already gone digging. Threads on Reddit had picked apart location clues, club decor, outfit matches. Instagram comments under a private profile filled with hearts and then venom. People knew. Or thought they did. And they wanted blood. Or justice. Or both.

I stared at the screen, my heart thudding in my ears. I hadn't expected this. I'd filmed that video because I couldn't sleep. Because I needed to put the grief somewhere that wasn't behind my ribcage. I never thought it would be reposted by celebrities. I never thought it would end up on news sites under vague headlines like Influencer Calls Out Infidelity in Viral Video. I hadn't planned any of it. But maybe that's why it hit.

Another notification.

A user had DM'd me a screengrab of the woman's Facebook. Linda. The comments section was on fire.

Another message: "This the guy, right? Jim?"

Followed by another: "You should interview him."

I dropped the phone onto the bed like it had burned me. My reflection in the hotel mirror looked ghost-pale. My glasses slid down my nose. I pushed them up, stared at the mess of my hair, my smeared mascara. Then I opened Instagram. Tapped "Create." Sat on the floor again.

"I won't name names. Not here. But the city knows. You know.

The man in blue deserved better. And the world needs to remember what real love looks like, so we never forget how it feels to watch it break."

I posted. Then turned the phone face-down.

I didn't check the views.

Didn't check the likes.

Didn't watch it spread like wildfire.

I just sat there, knees to my chest, letting the echo of my own words fill the room like a prayer I wasn't sure I believed in.

By noon, it wasn't just my video trending. It was them. Linda. Marc. Jim, too, though no one had his last name yet. TikTok exploded first. The video of their dance surfaced from someone across the room, blurry but damning. Captioned: "When she leaves the man who looks at her like she's the sun for a football player in tight pants." Half a million likes in under an hour. The comments were brutal. "She was never his." "Marc fumbled his humanity." "Some men deserve peace, not pain."

Reddit got uglier. Screenshots. The original dinner photo from the group's Facebook. A few people claimed to know someone at the table. One of the top-voted posts was titled "She wasn't just dancing." Twitter threads followed. By the time I scrolled past a meme of Linda photoshopped onto the Titanic sinking with the caption "This dress didn't survive the iceberg either," I knew we were past the point of no return.

And still, I didn't say anything.

I didn't post their names.

But I didn't stop it either.

I couldn't.

I wouldn't.

Marc LaValliere's PR team finally broke radio silence late afternoon. A tweet from his account read:

"Private matters should remain private. I have nothing but respect for all involved."

That only made things worse.

Someone quote-tweeted: "Translation: I banged a married woman but please don't cancel my jersey."

The replies were filled with broken-heart emojis and football GIFs with the caption "TRADE HIM."

He trended in three states before sunset.

Linda didn't post anything. But her latest Instagram photo, dated the night of the club, was flooded with comments. "Homewrecker." "Jim deserved better." "Hope Marc lets you down easy when he finds a newer model."

I was still in the hotel, sitting in the window wearing the same shirt from last night, when my phone rang. I almost didn't answer. But the contact read: FENTY HQ. I swiped.

"Savannah, hey, it's Meika. I just... are you okay?"

I opened my mouth, but no words came out at first. I looked down at the soda can I'd been nursing for four hours. It was room temp and unopened. Finally, I exhaled.

"Not really," I said.

There was a pause. No follow-up. Just silence. A kind one.

"We'll hold off on the campaign check-ins. Focus on you."

She hung up before I could say thank you. I didn't deserve it anyway. Because this wasn't just a viral moment anymore. It was a wildfire. And I wasn't sure if I was the one who struck the match...

Or just someone who didn't bother to put it out.

I stood in front of the hotel mirror and pulled my glasses off like they were handcuffs. The rings beneath my eyes had bloomed into something soft and bruised. I stared at myself, then reached for the concealer. Not because I had a shoot. Not because I was filming. Just because it was easier to pretend I had control if I could even out my skin.

By the time I left the room, I looked like her again. The version of me people were used to. Clean, polished, curated. Not the girl who sat on the carpet weeping into a phone camera. But I didn't take my phone out. No B-roll. No "walking vibes" reel. No posts.

I didn't even know where I was going. I just walked. Through the still-frozen streets of a city that wasn't mine, passing people who didn't know who I was or what I'd done. For a second, I envied them. For not knowing Jim. For not seeing him look at Linda like she held his whole heart in her palm, and then watching her casually toss it aside like it weighed too much.

At a crosswalk, I saw a couple holding hands, fingers interlaced like they'd done it for years. She leaned into his shoulder, and he kissed the top of her head like it was the most natural thing in the world. I felt my stomach twist.

Jim did that last night.

And she didn't even flinch when she broke him.

I imagined him scrolling. Maybe seeing the clips. The comments. The rage on his behalf. I imagined his face when he realized the internet was burning for him. Would he feel seen? Vindicated? Or betrayed all over again?

What if he hated me for it?

What if he thought I'd used him for content, just like the others had used him for distraction, or entertainment, or excuse?

My feet stopped moving somewhere outside a bookstore. I stood there for a long time, arms wrapped tight across my chest, and told myself to breathe. To calm down. But the words pulsed inside me like a mantra gone wrong.

I didn't do it for likes.

I didn't do it for clout.

I did it because it mattered.

Because he mattered.

I turned and kept walking. No camera. No lens. Just fury still burning, but now coiled into something sharper. Something with purpose.

I wasn't done.

Not yet.

I didn't sleep that night.

I lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, wondering what kind of person I'd become. Not just because of what I'd posted, but because of what I hadn't done. All the ways I'd stood by. All the things I could have said. And hadn't.

But the more I turned it over in my mind, the more something started to calcify in my chest. Not guilt. Not regret.

Resolve.

If silence could be complicity, then maybe the truth could be justice.

And I knew exactly where to start. Dee.

It started with one of Dee's comments. A reply under a now-deleted post defending Linda: "People make mistakes. One night doesn't undo ten years of marriage. If you've never been tempted, you've never been honest." The tone was smug. Righteous. Like someone who thought she was bulletproof in a glass house. That was her mistake. Thinking the internet had a short memory. Thinking I did.

I opened a folder I hadn't touched since the club. The audio. The receipts. The things I hadn't wanted to use but kept, just in case. I scrolled through the files until I found the one that started with: "So if Asshole had picked you, as you wanted him to, you'd have done the same thing?" I listened again, just to make sure. Her voice, casual and cold: "I would."

The footage of Dee flirting with Marc hadn't come from me. Someone else had captured it, posted it in a forum, and tagged me. She'd leaned across him at the bar, her hand grazing his arm, laugh too loud, smile too polished. It wasn't a crime. But when paired with her words, it became something else.

I spliced it together. Her voice from the audio:

"Jim, please don't. Don't think that way."

Cut to: Her laughing at Marc's joke like she wanted to inhale him.

Then, a screenshot from her own blog post from six months ago:

"Loyalty isn't hard when you love someone. The hard part is forgiving the person who forgets that."

I captioned it:

"Funny how betrayal gets cute when it's your friend doing it."

Posted to stories. Reposted to TikTok. Then muted my notifications.

I didn't need to watch it burn. But burn it did.

Within an hour, someone pulled the blog post archive. Another found wedding photos of Dee and Dave, complete with "forever starts here" hashtags. Twitter went after her with surgical precision. The kind of precision usually reserved for politicians and influencers who fake sponsorships. This wasn't rage. This was sport.

I heard about Dave from a mutual friend of someone in my DMs. Left the house. Deleted joint accounts. Took the dog. I didn't cheer. I didn't post. I just stared out the hotel window as a snow flurry gathered at the edge of the streetlamp glow.

This wasn't justice exactly. But it was a warning.

Don't talk about loyalty while helping someone cheat.

Not when I've got receipts.

I didn't celebrate. I didn't post a victory dance or a smug recap. I just closed my laptop, set my phone face down on the counter, and let the silence settle in like fog. It didn't feel like winning. It felt like leveling ground that should have never been uneven to begin with.

But the internet has a short fuse and a shorter memory.

By morning, the storm I'd lit had begun to circle back. Not at Linda. Not at Dee.

At me.

The first backlash came wrapped in pastel Instagram slides and passive-aggressive captions. "Callout culture isn't accountability." "We don't heal hurt with more hurt." One influencer even tagged me, not by name, but through a thinly veiled implication: "Some creators forget they have real-world impact when chasing a viral moment."

Cute. Really. Especially coming from someone who once did a sponsored grief journal ad between her morning smoothie and an unboxing.

Then came the email. One of my pending brand deals, clean skincare, mid-five figures, was "paused until further review." Which was code for: we love your engagement but not your mess. My inbox filled with PR reps toggling between "concerned" and "strategically silent." By lunchtime, the whispers were official.

My phone rang. Leah. Not my manager, never had one, but the closest thing I allowed. My friend-slash-publicist-slash-legal guardian angel. She cut to the chase.

"You're crossing into dangerous territory."

"I'm already standing in it," I said.

Leah sighed. "Savvy, you're not wrong. But they're calling it targeted harassment now. You didn't name names, but the internet doesn't need you to. If this keeps going, you'll lose deals. Friends. Maybe more."

I swallowed hard and looked at my reflection in the window. I looked exhausted. Not pretty-exhausted. Just wrecked. But calm. The kind of calm that comes after something inside you hardens and stops bleeding.

"I don't care."

I ended the call, opened my camera, not to perform, not for a brand, but for me.

I didn't add music. I didn't add captions. I didn't check the light.

I just whispered, steady and quiet, into the lens:

"He deserves someone in his corner.

I'll be that person.

You don't get to shatter a man like that and walk away glowing."

I hit post.

Then closed my phone, sat back against the wall, and let the storm spin.

If it meant burning down my pretty little online world, so be it.

Jim had been alone.

He wasn't anymore.

I didn't check the comments this time. I didn't scroll or refresh or wait for the internet to clap back. I just turned off my phone and sat in the quiet, letting the weight of it all settle into my bones. I had said what I came to say.

But something still pulled at me. Not the noise. Not the backlash.

Him.

And if I was being honest with myself, I didn't want the world's reaction. I wanted to know if he was okay.

So I went looking.

I found out he'd moved out from a comment thread. Buried in the weeds of a neighborhood forum someone screenshotted and sent me. "Pretty sure Jim W. from Westwood moved out. Saw him loading a suitcase into his car Saturday morning." There were no photos. No follow-up. Just gone.

No statement. No public grief post. No "dear friends" manifesto about healing. He just left. Quietly. Like a man who didn't owe the world his pain.

And I couldn't explain why that broke me.

I kept telling myself to leave it. Let the dust settle. But something kept pulling me back. Not the viral video. Not the backlash. Just him. That look on his face. That quiet dignity. The silence that swallowed the room when she left and no one followed him.

So I did something I told myself was accidental. But it wasn't.

The bookstore was the kind of place algorithms don't understand. Soft jazz, real hardwood, shelves that still creaked. I wore jeans, a thrifted coat, and the same hoodie I cried in two nights ago. Glasses on. Face bare. No mic. No content crew. Just me and the hope that maybe I'd bump into a ghost.

And then I saw him.

He was standing in front of the fiction wall, head tilted like he couldn't decide whether he needed healing or distraction. His coat looked too big, or maybe he'd just lost weight in all the wrong places. I froze. Then I took one step. Then another. My heart pounded against my ribs like it was trying to warn me off. But I kept going.

He reached the door first. I reached past him, holding it open out of reflex.

"Thanks," he said softly.

His eyes met mine. Brief. Polite.

He didn't recognize me.

Not from the internet.

Not from the club.

Not from the fire I had lit in his name.

And something in me fractured, deep and sharp.

"Sure," I whispered.

And for once, I didn't try to make it a moment.

I just let it be one.

He walked out of that bookstore and didn't even glance back. I stood there holding the door like it meant something, like maybe he'd turn around and remember.

He didn't.

But fate, or timing, or something that felt suspiciously like hope, wasn't done with us yet.

Because that wasn't the last time I saw him. Not even close.

We kept running into each other. Once at the bookstore again, where I played it cool and asked what he thought of the paperback in his hand. Then at a corner coffee shop neither of us seemed to frequent until we both did. It didn't happen all at once, but it kept happening. Like the city wanted us to find each other again. Over the course of days, then weeks, it became a rhythm. Eventually, we started sitting. Then talking. Then not needing to fill the silence. He never asked what I did for a living. I never offered. It was like we both agreed, without saying so, that some truths weren't necessary.

He spoke in fragments. The kind that carried weight without asking for pity. I learned he had two kids. A son who drew monsters with big teeth, and a daughter who still half-believed in fairy tales. He mentioned them like they were the only soft part of his world left. When he smiled, it always looked a little borrowed. Like it used to fit better.

One afternoon, sitting on a park bench with to-go cups between us, he said, "I loved her so much I can't even hate her right." No lead-in. No context. Just those words, dropped into the space between us like a stone in water. I didn't respond. Not because I didn't have anything to say, but because I knew he wasn't looking for an answer. He just needed somewhere to put the grief for a moment, and I was okay with being the ground it landed on.

I didn't film any of it. Not the walks. Not the silences. Not the way his eyes lit up, barely, when he talked about his kids, or the way they dimmed when he talked about her. I didn't take notes for a caption or make a mental draft for a vlog segment. This wasn't content. It was something else. Something that made me feel like I was standing in a room that wasn't mine, but still somehow felt like home.

I didn't even write about him in my journal. And I write about everything. Every mood. Every outfit. Every stupid feeling that tugs at me until I can pin it to paper. But not him. Not Jim. It felt wrong to reduce him to that. Like putting him into words would make him less real, less raw, less mine, even though he wasn't mine at all.

I caught myself wanting him to be. More than once. I'd sit across from him in cafes, watching him quietly stir cream into his coffee like it was a ritual, and think, Why didn't I meet you first? Before the marriage. Before the betrayal. Before the brokenness. I hated how much I wanted to touch his hand and hated even more how much I didn't dare to.

Because he was still in it. Still carrying the weight of her name like a bruise that hadn't faded. I was just the girl with the coffee and the conversation and the invisible ache she didn't speak out loud.

But I stayed. Not because I thought I could save him, but because I wanted him to know that someone saw him. And wouldn't walk away.

I stayed in his orbit, careful not to get too close, careful not to drift away. We existed in that quiet, suspended space between friendship and something heavier. I never asked for more. He never offered. But still, we kept showing up.

Until the weight of what I hadn't told him became too loud to ignore.

It was time.

It was raining the day I told him. The kind of quiet rain that didn't try to prove anything, just fell soft and steady, like the sky was sighing. We sat under the awning of a mostly empty café, the kind of place that brewed coffee in French presses and played sad indie music no one admitted they liked. He was nursing a black coffee. I had tea I wasn't drinking. My heart was doing jumping jacks against my ribs.

"I need to tell you something," I said, eyes fixed on the steam curling from my cup.

He looked at me, patient, like always. "Okay."

"I'm the reason it went viral." The words landed heavier than I'd imagined. "The video. The clips. The noise. I didn't leak names, but I lit the match."

He didn't speak right away. Just blinked. Then nodded slowly, as if his brain had to parse it into smaller pieces first. "I don't know what to do with that," he finally said.

"You don't have to." I forced myself to meet his eyes. "I'm not asking you to feel anything about it. I just couldn't keep pretending you didn't know. It didn't feel fair."

He leaned back in his chair, rubbed a hand over his face. Not angry. Not relieved. Just tired. "You did all that for someone you didn't know?"

I swallowed the lump forming in my throat. "I didn't do it for content. I didn't do it for clicks or followers or to go viral." I paused, letting the truth find its shape before I gave it breath. "I did it because watching you hurt felt like bleeding through someone else's wound. And I couldn't pretend I didn't feel it just because it wasn't mine."

He stared at me for a long moment, rain tapping rhythmically against the awning above us. Then he nodded once, slow and thoughtful. "That's probably the strangest compliment I've ever gotten," he said, almost smiling. "But it's not the worst."

And somehow, that was enough.

His words didn't wrap things in a bow, but they didn't break anything either. And somehow, that was enough to breathe again. We didn't talk more about the video. Or the fallout. Or the fire I started.

Instead, we kept walking forward. Carefully. Quietly. Building something unspoken in the spaces where hurt used to live.

We never talked about what we were. Not even when it started becoming routine. Our version of closeness was stitched together from grocery runs, bookstore stops, and movie nights that ended in half-finished credits and shared silence. He'd sit on the end of the couch like gravity preferred it that way, legs stretched out, one arm casually draped over the backrest. Close, but not touching. I'd curl up on the other end, blanket over my knees, pretending not to notice how often we reached for the popcorn at the same time.

One night, we watched a rom-com that was trying too hard. When the guy kissed the girl mid-misunderstanding, Jim let out a small exhale and said, "In real life, she'd slap him."

I laughed. "In real life, they wouldn't have talked for a week and then texted at 2 a. m., 'You up?'"

He glanced over. "You sound like you've been on that end."

I shrugged. "More times than I'll ever admit sober."

He smiled. Barely. But it stayed longer than most of his smiles did.

He never crossed a line. Not even accidentally. And I never pushed. No flirty teasing. No long stares. Just the occasional shoulder bump that lingered a second too long, the kind of touch that didn't ask for anything but left something behind anyway. I'd never met someone who could make silence feel safe. Or someone who could break my heart a little more every day just by being kind without realizing it.

I was falling. Slowly. Unstoppably. And quietly enough that I didn't scare either of us. He was still married. Not wearing a ring, not pretending, no contact, but the papers hadn't gone through.

"Any updates from your lawyer?" I asked once, casually, like I wasn't dying to know.

Jim shook his head. "Linda's lawyer is dragging it out. She's 'reviewing terms.'"

He made finger quotes with the kind of bitterness you earn.

"I think she's stalling. Doesn't want the door to close unless she's the one slamming it."

"She already slammed it," I said before I could stop myself. "You just had the decency not to lock it behind her."

He looked at me, eyes heavy but soft. "Sometimes I think I'm holding it open for the kids."

Then, after a long pause: "Other times... I'm just afraid I don't know how to close it."

I didn't know how to answer that. So I didn't. Instead, I folded laundry beside him. Drove him to pick up takeout. Helped him choose cereal for his daughter.

Another day, we sat in the car outside his apartment, split fries between us. He looked out the windshield and said, "You ever have something good but keep looking over your shoulder for the thing that used to be there?"

I nodded, even though I wasn't sure if I was the good thing or the ghost he was still chasing.

"You don't have to stop looking back," I said softly. "Just... don't forget to look around, too."

He didn't say anything. But he reached for another fry and brushed my fingers, just barely.

And inside, I made myself a promise. If Linda didn't let him go soon, I would rip the threads out myself.

Not to win.

To free him.

I kept the promise to myself. Every time I saw her name stall in his inbox or heard the exhaustion in his voice, I reminded myself this wasn't about revenge. It was about release. He deserved peace. Not purgatory.

So I made a plan. Not loud. Not angry. Just clear. It was time to look Linda in the eye and give her one last chance to do the right thing.

I chose the café on purpose. Public. Bright. Plants in every corner. The kind of place where people lower their voices and drink overpriced matcha. It was also crowded. Just enough to make what I was about to do undeniable. Just enough to make sure Linda couldn't lie her way back into the fog.

I angled my phone just right on the little tabletop tripod, streaming without filters. I didn't post a teaser. No caption. Just me, hoodie zipped, glasses on, hair pulled back like I meant business. My voice came steady when I spoke, even as adrenaline licked at the back of my throat.

"Some people want to be seen. Others want to hide."

Pause. Beat. "Linda chose both. So let's clear a few things up."

She walked in right on cue. Designer trench, oversized shades, hair straightened to perfection like she thought it would shield her. When she saw me, she faltered, but just for a second.

"You," she said, eyes narrowing. "You're the one who--"

"Made sure people saw the truth?" I interrupted. "Yeah. That was me." I gestured to the seat across from me. "Sit. Or stand. Doesn't matter. You're already on camera."

"You have no right," she started, but I cut her off, calmly, crisply.

"Sign the papers, Linda. Take the fair deal. Child support. Joint equity. No tricks. No more stalling. Or I will bury your brand so deep your grandkids won't know how to spell it."

She stared at me like I'd just slapped her.

"Is this because you want him?" she spat. "You're sleeping with Jim, aren't you? You want what we had. You'll never be me."

I smiled for the camera, lips tight, voice low.

"No. I'm not sleeping with him."

Pause. "But I'd never cheat on him either."

The stream chat exploded. Emojis. Fire. Caps lock.

Viewers: 203,414 and climbing.

Linda looked around, finally realizing half the café had stopped pretending not to listen. Phones were out. People were recording. Someone gasped. Someone else muttered, "Damn."

Her voice shook. "This is harassment."

"No," I said quietly. "This is consequence."

By the time she stormed out, breath ragged and fingers clenched around her overpriced purse, the hashtag #MidwestKaren was already trending.

For the first time in weeks, I felt... still.

The moment Linda stormed out of that café, the silence that followed felt almost sacred. I didn't celebrate. I didn't post a follow-up. I just sat there, watching the view count tick higher as if the world had needed that confrontation as much as I had.

But when the dust settled, and the noise kept growing, I realized something I hadn't expected. Winning didn't feel like winning. It felt like exhaustion with a spotlight on it.

The flight back to LA felt longer than it was. I had the window seat but kept the shade down the whole time, headphones in, no music playing. I didn't want a soundtrack. I didn't want anything curated or aesthetic. I just wanted to land somewhere I didn't feel like I was made of glass. Or gasoline.

The video of my showdown with Linda had done numbers I couldn't process. Every platform. Every continent. Reposted by news anchors, reaction channels, even a late-night comedian who made a joke about it before pivoting to a commercial. The Savvy Set was losing their minds. Influencers I'd never met called me "brave." PR firms wanted to book me. Brands sent flowers.

I felt like throwing them all away.

The first thing I did when I got home was delete half my draft folder. Everything scripted. Every sponsored caption that felt even a little dishonest. The outfits I'd planned to post, the GRWMs, the feel-good haul with the blazer I no longer wanted to see again. I tossed them into the trash with a kind of spiteful satisfaction. I canceled three upcoming collabs with an email that just said, "I need a break. Thanks for understanding." One didn't respond. One sent a sad face emoji. The third wired me half the rate and called it goodwill.

I didn't reach out to Jim.

Not because I didn't want to, but because I did. Too much. I didn't want to seem like I was cashing in on my own crusade. He'd been through enough. And part of me was terrified that if I stepped one toe too close, I'd ruin whatever fragile thread was still connecting us. I didn't want to be another person trying to take something from him, even if all I wanted was to see his face.

God, I missed him.

I missed his quiet. His stillness. His tired, soft smiles that made me want to memorize the shape of them. I missed watching him stir coffee like it required reverence. I missed our silence more than I'd ever missed anyone's attention.

At night, I found myself checking our old texts. Not that there were many. Just enough to make me ache. A "got the fries" here. A "book's waiting" there. Simple things that had meant more than all the fire I'd sparked online. Because that was real. He was real.

I could have turned all of this into content. A victory lap. A recap. A "what I learned from taking down a cheater and her friends" video. But I didn't. I didn't want closure. I wanted him.

Jim had gone quiet.

Offline.

Like a door I didn't know if I was still allowed to knock on.

The messages kept pouring in. Supportive, curious, speculative. Everyone wanted to know what came next, but for the first time, I had nothing to give them. No updates. No plans. Just silence where his voice used to be.

As the holidays crept closer, that silence started to settle in my bones.

It was almost Christmas, and Los Angeles had finally decided to pretend winter existed. The air had that rare bite to it, enough to make me swap crop tops for cable-knit sweaters and pretend the cinnamon in my latte wasn't just another branding hook. My place looked like a holiday shoot exploded; tree, lights, stockings I didn't need. I told myself it was for content. It wasn't.

My career had never been bigger. Campaigns lined up through spring. Magazine features. A Forbes write-up that called me "the voice of digital accountability with a pretty face and a sharp edge." I was proud. Or at least I should've been. Every time another influencer tried to replicate the formula, confrontation, raw monologue, redemption arc, it rang false. Manufactured rage. Viral empathy. But none of it stuck the way mine did.

Because mine wasn't about content.

It was about him.

Still was.

I hadn't heard from Jim in months.

No texts. No calls. No "how've you been." Just quiet. I kept checking my phone like a junkie looking for a hit that never came. I told myself I wasn't, but the stats didn't lie. My screen time spiked every day around 11 p. m., the hour he used to reply "still awake?" after the kids went down.

I talked to the camera like nothing was wrong. Posted gift guides. Morning routines. An NYE dress haul that hit 1.8 million in less than twenty-four hours. But my eyes gave it away. They always do. The Savvy Set noticed. A few comments started stacking.

"Savannah looks... tired."

"You okay, babe?"

"She's glowing but not happy."

During a Q&A, someone asked me, "What's the biggest thing you've lost this year?"

I paused longer than I meant to.

"I lost something I didn't even have the right to want," I said, staring into the lens like maybe it would answer for me.

That night, I wrapped three presents in gold foil paper and soft velvet ribbons. One for a boy who liked monsters. One for a girl who believed in stories. And one for their father, who didn't need anything material, but deserved everything anyway.

I placed them beneath my tree, even though I didn't know if they'd ever be opened.

Even though I didn't know if he'd ever come back.

Even though silence had become the loudest sound in my life.

The gifts stayed under the tree long after the needles began to fall. I couldn't bring myself to move them. They sat like quiet hope wrapped in ribbon, waiting for a moment that never came.

It was February. Again.

A full year since that night. Since the club. Since the blue dress and the dance and the gut-punch silence that followed. Since I watched a man's heart fracture in real time and made it my mission to make sure the world noticed. Twelve months since the betrayal that wasn't mine felt like it cracked through my own chest.

The day I found out the divorce was finalized, I was eating cereal in my kitchen in an oversized sweatshirt and socks that didn't match. I wasn't doomscrolling. Not really. Just... checking the tags. The story had long since quieted. The fire had burned through. People moved on. But I hadn't. Not really.

Someone sent me a link. A quiet little post in the local court docket.

James William and Linda Diane - Dissolution of Marriage. Filed. Finalized.

No press. No buzz. No new drama.

Just a line in public record that confirmed the one thing I hadn't been able to stop thinking about for a year.

He was free.

Jim still hadn't called.

I stared at the screen like it owed me something. Like it might crack open and tell me why. Why he never reached out. Why he'd let me burn down her brand, his friend group, half the damn internet, and never so much as texted "thanks."

Was it guilt? Regret? Did he hate me for dragging his private pain into the light? Or worse... did he just not care anymore?

Leah called around noon. She was checking in about a brand renewal, but I barely heard her. She picked up on it right away.

"What happened?"

I hesitated. "He's officially divorced."

There was a long pause on the other end. Then her voice softened, losing its usual PR armor.

"Savvy... maybe he needed time. Not just to grieve her. But to become the version of himself who's ready for someone like you."

That line split something in me. Because I hadn't thought of it that way. I'd spent a year wondering what I was to him. I hadn't once considered what he might've needed to become before he could even see me.

The divorce was final.

The story was over.

And still, my chapter hadn't started.

I closed the tab, but the words stayed burned into the back of my mind. The divorce was final. The story was over. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that something unfinished was tugging at the edges of me.

So when Sunday rolled around, and I went live just to feel a little less alone, I wasn't expecting anything more than laundry and soft jazz.

I wasn't even wearing makeup. My hair was in a lopsided bun, and the hoodie I had on still smelled faintly like dryer sheets. The "Sunday Reset" stream wasn't about looking polished. It was soft jazz, warm lighting, and me folding laundry on my living room floor while talking to 30,000 people like we were all just roommates sharing space. Comfort content. No drama. No tears. Just calm.

I was mid-fold on a pair of joggers when it happened. The chat had been bubbling, nothing major, just cozy chaos. Questions about favorite cleaning products. What candle was burning. Someone asking if I'd ever do a "Clean With Me" collab with another influencer. I was about to answer when a comment stopped me cold.

@CoffeeTableDad: "So... LA has good bookstores, right?"

The screen didn't blur. The sound didn't glitch. But something in me short-circuited.

I froze, arms halfway through folding the waistband. My eyes locked on the comment, reading it twice to make sure I hadn't imagined it.

The chat exploded instantly.

"OMG IT'S HIM"

"IS THIS JIM??"

"COFFEE TABLE DAD IN THE CHAT??"

"Savannah blink twice if this is real"

My heart jumped so hard it felt like I might drop the phone. I whispered, mostly to myself, "No way."

Then blinked. Twice.

I grabbed the phone off its stand with both hands, face way too close to the camera now, and typed back with trembling fingers:

SavannahRae: "Define good."

The chat went nuclear.

And all I could do was smile like I was falling.

Because maybe... I was.

My fingers hovered over the screen, heart thudding like it might break through. The chat was still exploding, but everything outside that one comment blurred. I didn't know what I expected when I replied, but it wasn't what happened next.

Because a second later, a new message appeared. Simple. Direct. And suddenly, I was holding my breath all over again.

@CoffeeTableDad: "Can I call you?"

I didn't type. I didn't blink. I just said it out loud, half-laughing, half-gasping,

"YES!"

The chat lost its collective mind. Emojis flew, hearts pulsed, people screamed in caps. I scrambled off the floor, nearly knocking over the laundry basket, and reached for my phone with hands that didn't seem interested in cooperating.

Then it rang.

His name wasn't saved in my contacts, but I knew. My whole body knew. The room went silent except for the soft instrumental music still playing in the background and the frantic tapping of a hundred thousand strangers losing their minds on the internet.

I picked up.

"Hey," I said, breath caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to joy. "You're live," I added quickly, just in case. "Like, really, really live."

There was a pause. A small breath.

Then his voice, calm and warm and steady.

"Then I guess this is the first time I say it out loud to more than one person."

My throat tightened.

"Savannah..."

He said my name like it meant something. Like he hadn't said it in months but had been holding it the whole time.

"... I think I love you."

The chat froze. Or maybe I did.

Somewhere in the flood of reaction and disbelief and sheer, breathless magic, I managed to whisper,

"I think I love you too."

For once, I didn't care that the whole world heard it.

Because this moment wasn't for them.

It was for us.

The screen was still live, but I barely noticed the stream of hearts and stunned comments pouring in. His voice echoed in my ears, softer than anything I had heard in months, and for a moment, nothing else existed. I whispered back, feeling every word like a truth I had waited too long to speak.

As soon as the stream ended, I pressed the phone to my chest for a beat, like that would stop my heart from sprinting. The chat had been an electric blur, cheering, gasping, crying emojis flooding in, but I didn't care about any of it. I hit "end stream," and the second the screen went dark, I called him back.

He answered before the first ring finished. "Hey," he said again, this time quieter. Realer.

"Hey," I breathed, curling into the corner of the couch like I was trying to make room for him on the other end of the line.

There was a pause. Not awkward. Just careful. Like neither of us wanted to rush and accidentally say the wrong thing when it already felt like we'd waited long enough.

"I needed time," he said eventually. "Not just to grieve. Not just to process. I needed to know I was choosing you because of you, not because you rescued me."

I nodded, even though he couldn't see it. "I wasn't trying to be your savior, Jim. I just couldn't be another person who stood by and watched something good get destroyed." I swallowed. "I was trying not to be a bystander again."

He was quiet again for a second. Then he said, "You weren't. You were the first person in a long time who actually stood up for me. I've never forgotten that. Even when I went quiet. Especially then."

We talked for hours. About nothing. About everything. About books and movies and what it was like growing up on opposite coasts. He told me he'd found a job in LA, teaching again. A good school. He was moving out at the end of the month. Said he'd already talked to Linda about modifying the custody agreement.

"No matter what she did," he said, "she was always a good mom. The kids need her. But I get them for summers and holidays."

He paused, picking at the label on his coffee cup.

"She wasn't thrilled," he admitted. "Still thinks maybe she's got time to turn things around. But I'm not looking back anymore."

I hesitated, then asked the question that had been quietly pulling at me. "Won't you miss them?"

"Of course," he said immediately, without flinching. "Every day."

His voice softened. "But I talk to them all the time. FaceTime, texts, bedtime calls. Tommy makes me sit through Lego descriptions like I'm on the edge of my seat. Emma sends me book recommendations she knows I won't read but pretends I do."

I smiled. "She's got your number."

"Completely," he said, chuckling. Then his expression grew more serious. "I've had to learn that being there doesn't always mean being in the same room. It's about being present, even when it's remote."

I nodded, letting his words settle between us.

"They'll be here this summer," he added, looking at me carefully. "Just a heads-up Emma will test you, and Tommy will probably try to marry you with a ring pop."

I laughed. "Noted. I'm good under pressure."

He smiled, that warm, half-lidded one that made it hard to breathe. "I think you're going to be great with them."

And I believed him.

Because somehow, in the middle of late-night conversations, over cold drinks and quiet truths, I realized this wasn't a temporary chapter. It was something steadier. Something that could hold.

We didn't make any declarations. No posts. No shared playlists. No carefully lit photos with linked handles. Just two people on the phone, hearts still a little cracked, trying to figure out what real could look like when no one was watching. When it was just us.

"I don't want to announce it," I said softly. "Not yet. Not ever, maybe."

"I know," he replied. "This isn't for them."

And somehow, that made it feel bigger than anything I'd ever broadcast.

So we kept it quiet.

No collabs.

No soft launches.

No hashtags.

Just us.

We didn't post anything the next day. No soft-launch photo. No cryptic captions. No clues. Just quiet. It was the first time in a long time I didn't feel the need to share something to prove it was real.

Instead, we planned a trip. No geotags. No aesthetic reels. No matching luggage or "weekend reset" voiceovers. Just two people who needed air, quiet, and the kind of sunlight that doesn't ask anything from you. We drove up the coast with the windows cracked and the music low. Stopped for coffee at a gas station with a hand-painted open sign. Took the long way on purpose.

I wore no makeup the entire time. My glasses stayed on. Hair in a loose braid, hoodie draped around my shoulders like armor I no longer needed. Jim called me beautiful every time he looked at me. Not performatively. Not like he was trying to convince me or himself. Just like he meant it. Like he'd always meant it.

We stayed in a little rental near the water, quiet and tucked away. It had creaky floorboards and a window that wouldn't close all the way, and I loved every inch of it. It felt like a place where people were allowed to be undone and still held carefully. We made breakfast barefoot. Took long, meandering walks. Watched the ocean without talking over it.

That night, when we made love for the first time, it wasn't some cinematic moment with perfect lighting and background music. It was quiet. Unrushed. A conversation in skin and breath. No fireworks. Just warmth. Safety. The kind of closeness that asks nothing of you but truth.

Every wall I didn't know I was still holding onto softened under his touch.

"Tell me if anything feels wrong," he whispered, fingers tracing a line up my spine.

"It doesn't," I breathed. "It feels like... finally."

He smiled against my shoulder. "Good. That's all I want."

Every place inside me that had braced for disappointment melted the moment he looked at me like I was more. Not curated. Not composed. Just me.

He didn't rush. Didn't perform. He held me like he meant it. Kissed me like I was a promise. Touched me like he was memorizing every part I thought I had to hide.

"I see you, Savannah," he murmured, brushing hair from my cheek. "All of you."

I blinked back tears, whispering, "Don't look away then."

"I won't."

No filters. No edits. No masks. Just Savannah.

Afterward, I curled into him, skin to skin, one leg tangled over his, our breathing synced without trying. It didn't feel like performance. It felt like exhale. Like coming home in my own body. Like being wanted without having to earn it.

He ran his hand up and down my arm in slow, lazy strokes. "I wish we'd found each other sooner," he said into my hair.

I smiled against his chest. "I probably would've screwed it up back then."

He chuckled. "Yeah. Me too."

We lay there, no rush to move, no need to speak. Just two people who'd been through the fire, finally letting themselves rest in something real.

"Hey," he said after a while.

"Yeah?"

"I love how you look at me."

I looked up. "How do I look at you?"

"Like I'm someone worth staying for."

My throat tightened. I touched his face gently. "You are."

He pulled me closer. "So are you."

I opened my phone later that night, out of habit. Swiped through old drafts, old captions. One in particular caught my eye. I had written it last December, right before everything changed. "Waiting to be seen," it said. It was meant to accompany a photo of me in a floor-length coat and heels I'd worn exactly once.

I hit delete.

Because I wasn't waiting anymore.

I was seen.

And so was Jim.

Not by millions. Not by an audience. But by each other.

And for once, that was the only visibility that mattered.

++++

Epilogue - "Just One Question"

The apartment smelled like cinnamon and fresh laundry. One of those little joys that didn't need a caption or a hashtag. Just our life, now. Sunlight spilled through the open windows, hitting the floor just right. Jim was reading on the couch, glasses on, hoodie I'd stolen from him now officially mine. The kids would be arriving for the summer next weekend. My schedule was stacked with shoots and interviews, but this afternoon? This moment? It was ours.

Funny thing is, it all started to move fast after that first trip. Not in a scary way, just like two puzzle pieces that finally stopped pretending they didn't fit. We'd survived the internet storm, the press cycle, the hesitant hellos from the kids. And then, somewhere between coffee refills and quiet grocery runs, I looked around and realized his toothbrush had never really left.

So I asked him.

Not with a speech. Not with a stream. Just one night, post-laundry, me curled up in bed with my hair still damp from a shower and him brushing his teeth. I said, "You know you basically live here, right?"

He didn't answer right away, just leaned in the doorway with a half-smile, towel slung over his shoulder, and said, "Is that your way of asking me to stay?"

"Yeah," I told him. "It is."

And that was it. No champagne. No fanfare. Just a yes and a kiss and a laundry basket that was suddenly ours instead of mine.

I was on a casual livestream now, just catching up with the Savvy Set, chatting skincare routines and what book I was pretending to finish. Cozy vibes. Oversized hoodie. Hair in a messy bun. I'd just finished answering a Q about favorite candle scents when I absentmindedly scribbled something in the margin of my notebook and didn't realize the camera caught it until the chat started freaking out.

"Did she just write SAVANNAH WILLIAMS???"

"UM. EXCUSE ME?"

"WHAT WAS THAT?!"

I froze mid-scribble, eyes wide. Jim looked up from his book with that quiet smirk of his and raised an eyebrow. "Is there something I should know?" he said, standing and walking over with the kind of deliberate calm that made my pulse spike.

I laughed, cheeks burning. "I was... hoping," I said softly, unable to stop the grin pulling at my lips.

He tilted his head. "Is that because you found the little box in my nightstand?"

My jaw dropped a little. "You knew I found it?"

"Please," he said, smiling now. "You left the drawer open. And you suck at pretending."

The chat was already going wild, hearts and ring emojis flooding in. And then Jim looked right at the camera, then back at me. He reached into his pocket like it was no big deal and pulled out that very box.

"So," he said casually, "since we're apparently doing this live... Savannah Rae, do you want to make that name official?"

I couldn't speak. I could only nod, eyes shining, heart thudding as I launched into his arms. We kissed, right there on stream, messy and real and perfect. The chat exploded, screenshots already flying, fans crying, someone typed "WE WERE HERE FIRST OMG" in all caps.

I ended the stream right after that. Some things are still just for us.

Jim was still holding me, one arm wrapped around my waist, the other trailing down until his fingers found mine.

"You okay?" he asked softly, his voice low like the moment didn't need volume.

I nodded. "Yeah. Better than okay."

He glanced at the little velvet box still in my hand, then leaned in and kissed my forehead like it was sacred.

"I was going to do it next week," he murmured. "After the kids came arrive. Thought it'd be better, I don't know... quieter."

I looked up at him, eyes shining. "That was quiet. For us."

He smiled. The kind of smile that only shows up when no one's watching.

"I mean, it was during a livestream," he teased.

"Details."

We stood there a beat longer than necessary, letting the quiet settle into our bones. My thumb brushed over the curve of the ring box. Not for content. Not for captions. Just because it was real.

"I didn't think I'd get this," I whispered. "Not just the proposal. The... all of it. The ordinary magic."

Jim tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "You deserved more than a fairytale. You deserved what comes after it."

He lingered, eyes tracing my face the way someone memorizes constellations. "You know," he said softly, "the thing that still knocks me flat... is how you look at me. Like I'm someone worth finding over and over."

My breath caught, tears rising fast again.

And then he kissed me, slow, sure, nothing performative. Just love. Just presence. Just the two of us in a kitchen that smelled like cinnamon and felt like forever.

And just like that, February stopped sucking, because when you find someone who loves you just as much as you love them, even the coldest month can feel like spring.

---------------

Notes from the Wyld:

This story has been kicking my ass for last few months.

Every time I thought I'd cracked it, I'd re-read what I had and immediately get frustrated. Scrap the draft, start over, and tell myself I was done. Then I'd be back in it again, trying to force the pieces into place. I then realized maybe I was focused on the wrong person. Maybe Jim's heartbreak wasn't the story I needed to tell. Maybe it was hers.

Not Linda's, but the woman watching. The one who saw it all happen, said nothing, and then couldn't live with that silence. A bystander who turned witness. Who picked up a phone, hit record, and started something she didn't know how to finish.

I don't know how readers will receive Savannah. She wasn't part of the original blueprint. But once idea of her appeared in that grey matter between my ears, I couldn't ignore her. She changed the story and in some ways, made it finally feel like mine.

George gave us all a beautifully broken problem to solve with February Sucks. Like a riddle wrapped in a dare. And whether this version counts as a win, a loss, or just a loud emotional draw, I needed to write it to be done with it.

And now I am.

(Savannah is one of those characters I might write about again. Maybe a sequel. Let me know in the comments or send feedback if you want to see a follow-up with Savannah and Jim.)

PS: I also want to give a shout-out to a couple of readers who did me the honor of reading early versions and sharing their thoughts. They're probably sick of me at this point, so all I can say is... I'm sorry. One of them I know by his real name, so I won't dox him here. The other is Beardog325. Thank you both.

PS PS: I'm glad I wrote this when the sun was out instead of back in January when I pinned High Wire, because who knows how it would've turned out for Linda, Dee, and Marc if I'd tackled this in the dead of winter. Also, from one Marc to another: go fuck yourself, Marc L. Seriously. You make the rest of us look bad, and we're done cleaning up your shit.

If you've made it this far through my overcaffeinated ramblings, you officially deserve a medal, a nap, or possibly both. Think of this as the post-credit scene no one asked for, just me, still talking, still unsure if any of this makes sense. Thanks for pretending it did.