Two strangers. One blog.
One writes in the dark, never knowing who reads.
The other reads in silence, never saying who she is.
Mia Michels is a journalism student who hides behind a fake name, spilling her thoughts like confessions at 3 a.m. Her pos...
"Because you really know how to spin a plot," I said, letting the line hang in the air between us.
I watched him stand, unhurried, his shoulders carrying the full weight of the day. He crossed to the bar. Without looking up from my phone, I gave a small flick of my hand for him to bring me a drink. He lingered a moment, studying me as if weighing something he would not say. I stayed focused on the screen. He came back with two glasses, handed me one, and kept the other as he sat beside me.
"Sorry about earlier," he said, taking a sip. "It's been a miserable day, frustrating to the limit. I ended up firing the model, and now I need another with the same measurements. There's no time to alter the garment."
He let out a long breath, as though he could clear the day out through his lungs.
"And it's not easy, not with the time I've got left," he added, his mouth tight.
I took a sip. The heat from the alcohol was brief, not enough to soften my expression. My phone lit up with a quick flash, and I reached for it, expecting something trivial. I felt his gaze on me. I raised an eyebrow before looking back at him.
"I wasn't laughing at you or the situation," I said, "just at your commentary."
He gave a nod I couldn't quite read. I dropped my eyes to the screen.
M. M. Reverie
Hey, I didn't expect to hear from you. My day's been somewhere between complicated and awful. I didn't want to write a depressing post, so I figured I'd leave it for tomorrow. It was sweet of you to ask.
Relief loosened in my chest. I hadn't scared her off.
"She's had a bad day. Apparently, today was the day for it, and you weren't the only one," I told Scott. He leaned back, half listening, his attention drifting between the TV, my face, and the glass turning slowly in his hands. "Do you know any private chat, somewhere I could talk to her without the whole blog audience reading along?"
He set his drink down and looked at me with a tilted, almost mocking smile.
"Ready for level two?"
"Cut the nonsense," I said with a huff. "I just think maybe in a more private space she might open up."
Something in his expression closed off, like he'd switched channels without warning. I'd known him for years, but that look was new.
"What is it? If you don't know of one, just say so."
"What is it," he said, arching his brows, his voice skimming the edge of accusation, "is that I can't remember the last time I saw you care about anyone, least of all a stranger. What's going on, are you switching careers and becoming a therapist?"
"I don't know what you're getting at, Scott. Do you or don't you know somewhere?" I pressed. He always knew these things. His phone was a zoo of apps, including more than one for dating.
"What I'm getting at is that you've always had that primordial goddess act, the whole 'don't talk to me, talk to my hand' thing." He snapped his fingers, shook his head, and gave a crooked smile. "That untouchable queen vibe. Impeccable beauty, undeniable talent... but a terrible personality."
I stared at him, stunned.
"When have I ever been like that?"
He didn't bother to answer. He pulled out his phone, scrolled, and when he found what he wanted, he held it out to me like evidence in court. On the screen was one of my videos. I was surrounded by microphones, black stems anchored to the floor, pointed at my face.
"Look at that expression," he said, tapping the image. "That's the 'I'm not killing you because we're being recorded' face. And that one... that's 'I could crush you like a cockroach and not even wrinkle my dress.'"
"They were being relentless," I said, keeping my voice steady. "I can't go to a restaurant without being hounded. I was reacting to the situation. That doesn't mean I've got a terrible personality. I'm not like that."
I yanked the phone out of his hand and started scrolling. It only took a few headlines for the heat to rise in my cheeks.
"Conceited?" I read aloud, the word catching in my throat. "Me, conceited? As if they knew me. They think seeing me once means they know the color of my underwear."
"Maybe Discord would work for what you're after. I think it'd be enough," he said at last. I handed the phone back reluctantly while he searched for the app.
"Look, it's true they don't know you, and of course they're going to make up their own stories," he added, a half-smile playing on his lips that I couldn't place as either solidarity or judgment, "but you were good at playing the bitch."
While the download inched along, I thought about how to suggest to M. M. Reverie that we move our conversations somewhere more private, without sounding like an overzealous creep.
"I'll give you that, I can be a bitch if someone pushes me," I admitted, my tone sharpening. "But my attitude has nothing to do with my personality. It depends on who's provoking me and how they do it. If they come in with that kind of intention, they'd better be ready for whatever comes, not whining afterward about how conceited I am or spouting the kind of crap I just read."
Silversteel Wow, sorry you've had one of those awful days. My best friend had the same kind today. I've got Discord. Just putting it out there, in case you'd like to keep talking over there. You can find me under the same name. No pressure, only if you feel like it.
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