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“Then believe with me,” I whisper against her ear.
She breathes easier and smiles more, and we continue scrolling through Fanaticon on our phones together.
Luna suddenly freezes. “What…?” Her voice is like a record scratch.
“Luna?” I set aside my phone, seeing her stuck on a Fanaticon post from the We Are Calloway forum.
Her arms start vibrating in panic, the phone jostling in her quaking hands.
“Luna.” I hold on to her trembling frame while she’s violently shaking and wheezing. My pulse kicks into high gear, and I try to pry the phone from her grip, but her fingers are superglued to the thing that’s distressing her.
“Donnelly,” she croaks. “Donnelly.”
I cradle her hand in mine to keep the phone steady, and I see it.
Human Him, Cosmic Her.
Not only did someone post a screenshot of the part where Zarek and Solana have sex with laughing emojis, they shared the link to her story on Fictitious and wrote, Luna Hale is a freak.
Someone must’ve connected Luna Hale to her anonymous username galaxxygirlx. And the public has access to all of her fics.
I’m boiling with raw fury. I love her stories.
I love them.
I love her.
And these people are dogging on her for what? Because it makes them feel better about themselves? Because they can’t let the rest of us love something? We’ve got to hate it with them? And on top of this raging feeling inside me, I’m wading in so much concern for Luna.
She’s still shaking. She wasn’t prepared for anyone to critique this part of her life. “Donnelly,” she chokes out.
“It’s not real,” I whisper against her ear, and I tear the phone out of her frozen clutch. “It didn’t happen.” I think she’s having a panic attack.
35
LUNA HALE
This is the part of the story where the asteroid hits the planet. Where the population of 1 is obliterated into tiny, fragmented pieces.
I’m used to ridicule. People have called me weird to my face. People have had secondhand embarrassment because of me. People online have said awful things about Luna Hale.
But this feels so very different. Every story I’ve written has little bits of me inside, and it’s not just constructive criticism about plot or storylines or grammar being hurled my way. It’s hateful, personal things.
I try not to think about the comments I saw under the post, but it’s impossible not to.
God, Luna Hale is so weird.
I knew she was weird but this is gross.
Anyone who likes her stories is weird too.
Just disgusting. And she’s a shit writer.
If you like Luna Hale, unfollow me now.
People are trying to get other people to hate me for something I love doing. Something I love writing. I feel like I’m in a darkened tunnel. No light.
No end.
“It’s not real,” Donnelly tries to soothe me. “It didn’t happen.”
I want to, so badly, hang on to his comforting words and his strong presence. But this crash is burying me, and I’ve lost the ability to pick myself out of the rubble this time.
“It didn’t happen,” I repeat, curling into a ball and hiding my face in my baggy shirt. “It…didn’t happen.” Can I pretend? Please, let me pretend.
I can’t stop trembling. I wasn’t ready for people to see these parts of me. I’m not ready.
I’m not ready.
I’ll never be ready.
Donnelly tightens his arms around my frame. I’m tucked between his legs, and the warmth of him—the notion that he’s here, he’s here, he’s here, and I’m not alone—is the only thing I can focus on that helps me breathe.
He gently pries my phone from my fingers. “I’m switching your Fictitious account to private.”
“Oh—” hiccup “—kay.”
Inhaling hurts.
Exhaling feels impossible.
Pressure on my chest compounds. I tuck my head deeper into my shirt and slip my arms out of the sleeves. Inside my T-shirt tent, I wrap myself into a hug. “It…didn’t…happen,” I whisper to myself.
Silent tears start streaming down my cheeks. My eyes sear, and I squeeze them shut.
The comments flash in my head again. I imagine all of my stories—ones that I never even meant for anyone to know I wrote—being blasted to the mainstream public. To people who don’t even know what Fictitious is. To Celebrity Crush. To morning talk shows.
I’m going to be the butt of a joke.
My stories posted for mockery. Passages will be screenshotted out of context. Used against me. To mock me.
I struggle to breathe because it feels like I’m being eviscerated. Like every nasty thing is compounding. It’ll all catch like wildfire. Hatred.
How do I climb out of it? Everyone will see my writing, eventually. Thousands. Millions will unknowingly bury me with their cruel thoughts.
“It happened,” I say, voice breaking. “It happened…it’s all over.”
I can’t rewind. The internet is forever.
It’ll always exist.
The bed undulates as Donnelly shifts out from behind me. I can’t see him, but I suddenly feel him kneeling in front of me.
