Chapter 4: His Smear Stream, My Awakening

The therapist said growing up without a dad left a hole, and his age and steady vibe made me project an ideal partner onto him.

It made sense, in a sad way. I was looking for a dad, not a boyfriend. I hated that about myself.

It wasn’t until I got depressed that I realized, beneath that mature exterior, he was actually sleazy and stubborn.

He was all talk, no action. He clung to old ideas, refused to change. He made me feel small, even when he was smiling. Funny how that works.

In the paid livestream in my previous life, he made it sound like I shamelessly begged him for dinner, tried to get close, and he reluctantly agreed to date me.

He twisted the story, made me the punchline. I watched the comments roll in, calling me desperate, pathetic. Each one stung.

Back then, I thought he was just shy, saying the opposite of what he meant, too embarrassed to admit he liked me.

I made excuses for him. I wanted to believe he was just awkward, not cruel.

Looking back now, if a man likes a woman, would he act like that?

No way. Real love doesn’t tear you down.

Truth is, I projected everything onto him, put a filter over him, and couldn’t see his true self.

I was in love with the idea of him, not the reality. I see that now.

Most creators don’t do paywalled livestreams just to reel in fans.

They build their brand, connect with people, share their lives. They don’t milk their relationships for cash.

But him? Just to make money, he used my name for a paid livestream, charging five bucks for access.

He didn’t care about my reputation, only his bank account. I was just another click, another dollar.

Some fans did the math: just from that stream, he made hundreds of thousands in a night.

I saw the numbers, felt the sting. He was getting rich off my pain. That hurt.

Some fans called him out, saying he was ruining my reputation, and I actually stood up for him, making excuses.

I cringe at that now. I defended him, even when he didn’t deserve it. I wanted to believe the best.

"He charges because he’s worried trolls or haters will sneak in, which would be bad for me."

I said it with a straight face, convincing myself it was true. I was so far gone.

Oh my god, I can’t believe I said that. What nonsense! How did I come up with it?

I shake my head now. If I could go back, I’d slap some sense into myself. If only.

In today’s stream, Mitchell was once again crying and pretending to be heartbroken.

He wiped fake tears, sniffled for the camera. The comments were savage.

Complaining to viewers, saying there was a misunderstanding, asking for advice.

He played the victim, hoping someone would take his side. It didn’t work.

All the comments said: "Just break up already."

The internet can be brutal, but sometimes it’s right. They saw through him before I did.

Why are internet strangers so much smarter than me? I should’ve listened sooner.

I laughed at the irony. Sometimes it takes a stranger to tell you the truth.

I had Emma message him, saying I wasn’t just fighting—I really wanted to break up.

Emma drafted the message, double-checked it, hit send. We waited, watching the typing bubbles.

A while later, Mitchell replied: "If you don’t sign, don’t even think about breaking up. Don’t forget, I still have your little video."

The words "little video" made my heart pound and my skin go cold.

I froze. My hands went numb. I knew exactly what he meant.

Emma looked at me, worried. "Should we still post the breakup statement tonight?"

Her voice was soft, careful. I could see the fear in her eyes. Her fingers drummed on the table.

I tapped my pen, staring at the statement I’d written—just a few words, but they felt as heavy as a mountain.

I’d written and rewritten it a dozen times. Each word felt like a risk, a leap into the unknown.

I knew once it was out there, it’d be like opening Pandora’s box; who knew what would come next.

I thought about the fallout, the trolls, the headlines. I wasn’t sure I was ready.

Especially since the private video from our nights together was still in Mitchell’s hands. I gritted my teeth and decided to play it safe. "Don’t post it yet."

Emma nodded, relief and worry mixed on her face. I could feel the walls closing in.

I held in my frustration; if I didn’t do something, I’d explode.

I needed to act, to take back some control. I opened my phone and started scrolling.

So, I deleted every short video on my homepage that featured Mitchell.

Each swipe felt like erasing a bad memory. I watched the thumbnails disappear, one by one.

The more I deleted, the angrier I got.

I hadn’t realized how many there were. How much of my brand I’d let him invade. Ugh.

First, there were way too many—free advertising for him.

He’d gotten exposure, followers, clout. All because I let him in.

Second, what was I even wearing in those videos?

I cringed at the blazers, the muted colors, the sensible shoes. I didn’t even recognize myself. Who was that girl?

Here I was, a vibrant 24-year-old woman, but after dating Mitchell, to avoid ridicule over our age gap and make him look better, I forced myself to dress like a drab 42-year-old.

I’d toned myself down, trying to fit his mold. I lost my spark, my edge.

A girl can tell if she’s with the right person by whether he lifts her up or drags her down.

It’s a simple truth, but so easy to forget. The right person makes you shine. The wrong one dims your light.

Mitchell was pure drag.

He was the anchor tied to my ankle. I was done. No more sinking.

The kind that drains your life.

I felt lighter with every video I deleted. I was taking my life back, one click at a time.

Not five minutes after deleting the videos, I got a DM on Instagram from a male blogger: "Trouble with your boyfriend?"

The message popped up like he’d been waiting for this moment. I hesitated, then clicked.

His name? Tyler Chen. Three times as many followers as me.

Tyler was a legend in the influencer world. Seriously.

I chalked his popularity up to his unique persona: model, food blogger, and—he’s a guy.