"That’s more like charity work than heartbreak if you ask me."
"Did he lose a bet? That dress is working overtime, poor thing."
"Imagine being the fat girl who ruins Jake Hollander’s premiere. I’d never show my face again."
My hand flies to my mouth.
I taste salt, tears, and shame. And above all, rage.
Because it doesn’t matter that they don’t know me.
It doesn’t matter that Jake looked at me like I was his whole world just hours ago.
The internet has already decided.
I’m a joke. A before photo. A punchline in a comment thread.
And him? He’s still the golden boy—untouched and untouchable.
He gets the sympathy. The fans. The free pass.
I get hashtags and humiliation.
And that breaks something deep inside me.
He broke my heart, and now the world is taking turns finishing the job.
For them, I’m not a woman. Not a person who bled herheart onto the page and dared to trust someone who smiled like he saw her.
I’m just a headline. A meme. The fat girl who dared.
And he’ll walk away from this shining because that’s what men like him do.
They ruin women like me and still get to be adored.
I feel humiliated. But worse, I feel erased, like my whole self has been collapsed into a single snapshot that no one even wants to understand.
I’m not sure how long I doomscroll through the hate, but I’m completely desensitized after a while.
I close the laptop.
It takes effort. My hands are shaking, and my chest is tight. Every part of me feels like it’s fraying at the edges.
I press my forehead to the table and try to breathe. Try to be.
A knock sounds at the door.
I groan. “Go away.”
Another knock, louder this time.
Then—Maya’s voice, muffled but unmistakable. “If you don’t open this door in the next ten seconds, I’m breaking in with a spoon.”
I let out a strangled noise that’s half laugh, half sob.
One more knock.
“I have ice cream! The expensive kind. And the sad girl playlist queued up on Spotify. I’m not above dramatic entrance music.”
