Your phone buzzed in your hand. You frowned at the notification, swiping upwards into Instagram to see what it was. You felt yourself involuntarily groan in embarrassment as you saw what it was, your heart lurching uncomfortably.

It was a DM. A reply. From George Memeulous.

George Memeulous. Who you had, three nights ago—completely sleep-deprived and full of chaotic YouTuber envy—decided to message on Instagram. You had just hit 7k subs. You were feeling bold. Or deranged. Either way, it had felt like a brilliant idea at the time.

You had just sent “OIL UP 🙏🏽🙏🏽 please george I’m on my knees” to George, not expecting a response at all.

And yet. Here you were. Staring at a notification that said:

georgem:

i beg you never send that again.

Your soul left your body. You stared at the message like it might vanish if you blinked fast enough. Maybe if you threw your phone across the room. Maybe if you reversed time.

You typed. Deleted. Typed again.

sorry sorry i’m just a small feral cretin pls pretend i never existed.

Three dots. He was typing. You nearly screamed.

georgem:

i’ve never been more frightened in my life. congratulations.

Your hands were sweating.

You knew Memeulous didn’t respond to DMs. Not really. Not unless you were one of the big names. Not unless you were a mate. Definitely not unless you were a gremlin with 7k subs and a frankly unhinged message history.

And yet. There was a pause. Then another reply:

georgem:

saw ur vid with the terrible mic. ur jokes were actually funny tho. might die before i recover from “tesco value babestation” line ngl.

You stared. Was he—complimenting you? You? Tesco Value Babestation was a throwaway joke. You’d left it in because you assumed no one important would see it.

Your fingers hovered. You typed:

no way you actually watched my stuff. i thought your DMs were like sealed off by MI6 or something.

Three dots again.

georgem:

i read the cursed ones. keeps me humble. anyway. keep making shit. not the oiling messages tho. that’s not… necessary.

You snorted—then slapped a hand over your mouth like you were being surveilled. Your eyes drifted to his last message again. He’d seen your video. He’d seen your video.

You flopped backwards onto your bed, face burning.

So. George Memeulous saw your unhinged thirst DM. Watched your YouTube video. And then complimented you.

You were going to need a moment. Or a coma.