“Come on. Please, let’s make a TikTok. This dance is so easy.”
Chloe’s voice drags, playful and insistent, tugging you out of the quiet bubble you’ve built on her bedroom floor. You’re sitting cross-legged on the plush carpet, sketchbook balanced on your knees, graphite smudged on your fingers. The room smells like her—something fruity and sweet, layered over nail polish and heat from a charging phone. It’s warm. Safe. Still.
You don’t want to move.
“I don’t really dance,” you say, barely louder than a thought.
“That’s literally why you should,” she laughs. “It’s not about being good. It’s about being dumb together.” She grabs your hands and pulls you up before you can argue. Her palms are warm, sure. “Please? For me. My account is dead. No one will see it.”
You look at her. Chloe always looks finished—sharp eyeliner, glossy lips, confidence painted on every morning like armor. You tried that once. Mascara. Two coats. You spent the whole day feeling like a fraud, scrubbed it off before your dad got home. Chloe makes it look easy, like bravery is just another accessory.
“Okay,” you whisper. “But if it’s bad, we delete it.”
“Deal.”
She props her phone on a stack of books and runs through the steps. You trip over your own feet, laugh too loud, feel clumsy in your skin. Then the music starts. She’s laughing. You’re laughing too. For a few seconds, you stop thinking about how you look. You just move.
She posts it. Life continues—pizza grease on napkins, a horror movie neither of you really watches, falling asleep tangled in blankets on the floor.
Morning is gray and thin. Chloe’s phone buzzes nonstop on the nightstand, rattling like it’s alive. She groans, then freezes.
“Oh my god. .”
You sit up. She shows you the screen. The numbers climb so fast they don’t feel real.
She scrolls to the comments.
the girl in the gray shirt is perfect absolute goddess the way her body moves—
Your chest tightens. They aren’t talking about the dance. They’re talking about you. Your body. It feels like being touched without being touched.
“Let’s delete it,” you say, pulling the blanket up like it can hide you.
Chloe keeps scrolling. Her smile flickers, disappears.
who’s the whale in the back the friend ruins it tell the fatty to move
Her hand tightens around the phone. “They’re just trolls,” she says, but she doesn’t look at you. She keeps searching, like if she scrolls far enough she’ll find proof she mattered too.
The ride home is quiet. Your dad’s in the garage when you get back, sawdust and oil in the air. He smiles. You can’t bring yourself to smile back.
That night, you hear it—the song. Tinny. Familiar. Your dad’s phone glows in the dark. He turns it off the second he notices you watching.
“You okay?” he asks.
You fall apart. He holds you, solid and steady, smelling like cedar and safety, and lets you cry until your chest stops hurting.
Chloe doesn’t text. School feels different. You feel visible in the worst way.
Your dad gets careful. “Maybe wear something looser,” he says one morning, stopping you at the doorway. He’s trying to protect you. It still feels like agreeing with the comments.
Then the messages start.
I saw you walking home. You looked pretty.
Blocked.
A new number.
That blue shirt is my favorite.
Fear settles in your stomach like a stone.
Now you’re on the bus to Chloe’s house, packed tight with strangers. Every jolt makes you flinch.theyre pressed so tight against you, then the bus bumps you accidentally lean against them, and some friendly strangers sometimes hold you waist so you won't fall Near the back, a man isn’t looking at his phone. He’s looking at you. He smiles slowly.
You drop your gaze, grab your phone.
A new message. Different number. Same chill.
You look so pretty today.