Page 112 of Going Viral for Christmas
Fingers skim over the sheets that are still holding the shape of her. She’s always curled tight to the edge, as though claiming space costs her something. But even that narrow corner of comfort has been abandoned tonight.
Sitting up, I rub sleep from my eyes. My phone on the nightstand reads 4:12 a.m. Wind brushes dry branches against the roof, a scratchy rhythm that slithers beneath my skin.
The weight of the hour presses in on me as I creep out of the room.The stairs groan beneath my weight, and every creak slices through the quiet as I pad down them.
A faint silver glow spills from the living room, drawing me forward. Ava is curled on the couch in the shape of a question mark.
Lurking in the shadows, I take her in. Ava’s knees are tucked beneath her in a way that makes her look younger than she is, like a kid who wandered out of bed chasing nightmares.
She’s wearing a threadbare hoodie that swallows her frame, the sleeves bunched around her fists, the collar pulled up to her jaw. Armor. Her hair’s a messy knot, strands falling loose around her temples, wild and sleep-tousled. Her eyes are locked on her phone, lit by the glow of ShelfSpace, where my face fills the screen.
I know the video. It’s me, mocking the ending to a Halloween rom-com she wrote, complete with fake tears and a dramatic reading in a bad Dracula accent. She watches without anger, but there’s no smile on her lips.
In the glow of the screen, the edges of her face are different, fragile in a way she never lets the world see. The pressure to be adored. To entertain. To build a version of herself that always delivers, even when it costs more than she’s willing to show.
The sight of her unguarded and alone in the middle of the night is heartbreakingly human. She isn’t the stage version tonight. Not the silver-tongued rival or the viral name. She’s not just watching a video of me mocking her book. She’s holding her breath through it, bracing herself.
It makes my chest ache in ways I can’t explain.
Whatever she’s carrying with her runs deeper than I understood initially, with unspoken expectations she’s placed on herself. Outside of the ones the industry throws at her. I can see now how they’ve piled up in her silence, and how she smiles through the exhaustion.
This is Ava. Unfiltered. Unmasked.
She knocks the wind out of me in this quiet, unraveling moment. It’s a blow I never saw coming until now, standing here, watching. I’m breathless.
I take a step forward, but a soft voice stops me.
“Ava?” Her mother shuffles into the living room, wrapped in a robe the color of warm sand.
Ava jumps a little, locking her phone and shoving it under a pillow.
Mandy’s slippers barely make a sound as she crosses the room. A silk scarf wraps her curls into a careful tower on top of her head. Tired eyes pass over me, but I’m too far hidden in the shadows for her to notice. They catch on Ava immediately.
“Honey,” she murmurs, voice still thick with sleep. “What are you doing up?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Everything okay?”
Ava presses her lips together and nods. By the way she closes her eyes, I can tell she’s fighting back tears, and that fucking guts me.
Her mother nods, then moves toward the kitchen. “Come on, honey.”
Mandy flicks on the kettle, leans against the counter, and watches her daughter with practiced ease.
Sinking deeper into the shadows, I plan to head back upstairs when Mandy says, “You know, snuggling a warm man is therapeutic.”
Ava exhales hard, more a breath than a response. But her mother keeps going on about it. I almost laugh.
“What?” her mom says, completely unbothered. “It’s true. Your father has the body heat of a radiator. You should take advantage while you’ve got one.”
Ava groans, pulls the hoodie higher over her face. “Mother.”
The kettle whines to life, a mechanical sigh filling the room. Steam starts to rise. Her mom goes quiet.
She turns, eyes sharpening as only a mother’s can. “What happened. Did you two fight?”
“No.” Ava shakes her head. “He’s been...perfect. But I don’t think he and I are meant to be.”
