Social media saves me, in a weird way.
When I first arrived in Oakridge Hollow—broken, scared, convinced I'm fundamentally unlovable—I started posting little videos about my new life. Nothing fancy, just me being aggressively cheerful about small-town things. The local bakery's cinnamon rolls. The way the leaves change color. My disastrous attempts at holiday crafts that look like they're made by an enthusiastic toddler with access to a glitter cannon.
People respond. Not millions—I'm still a small influencer in the grand scheme of things—but enough.
Enough comments saying"you made me smile today"and"I needed this positivity"to make me feel less alone.
Less isolated.
Like maybe I'm not as broken as Kael convinces me I am.
But there's always a dark side to it, isn't there?
The comparison trap. The perfectly curated lives that make mine look messy and chaotic. The occasional comment that cuts deep, usually from someone whodefinitelyisn't Kael or his pack butcouldbe.
I try to avoid that darkness.
Pretend it doesn't exist. Focus on the joy, the connection, the community I'm building.
And deep down—in a place I barely admit to myself—I hope that one day, a video will go viral. That some magical algorithm will bless me with fifteen minutes of fame that could open doors. Maybe a brand partnership. Or enough money to stop worrying about making rent every month.
Would that give me the proof I need to feel I'mworthsomething?
God, that's depressing…I must need more coffee.
I roll out my yoga mat in the small clear space between my bed and my overflowing bookshelf, positioning myself where I can see out the balcony doors. The sky is still deep indigo, punctuated by a few stubborn stars. The air coming through the cracked door is sharp and clean, carrying the scent of pine from the forest that edges the town and the faint sweetness of wood smoke from someone's fireplace.
I start with gentle stretches, letting my body wake up slowly. Neck rolls that release the tension I carry since the nightmare. Shoulder shrugs that remind me I don't have to hold the weightof the world—or Kael's criticisms—anymore. Cat-cow stretches that make my spine crack in deeply satisfying ways.
The familiar movements are meditative.Grounding.Each breath in brings the scent of coffee and vanilla and pine. Each breath out releases a little more of the nightmare's grip.
In with peace. Out with panic. In with possibility. Out with the past.
I move into a plank, arms shaking slightly because despite doing this every morning, planks are still the devil's exercise and I stand by that assessment. But I hold it, focusing on my breathing, on the way my muscles engage, on anything except the lingering echoes of Kael's voice in my head.
Side plank. The shaking intensifies.
Why do I do this to myself? Oh right, because I have “standards” for my future pack. Wait. Future pack? Girl, you can't even commit to a coffee order. Let's not get ahead of ourselves.
I transition into downward dog, feeling the stretch through my hamstrings and shoulders.
Outside, the sky is starting to shift—still dark, but with that particular quality of pre-dawn darkness that promises sunrise is coming. The birds are getting louder, more insistent in their morning songs.
Child's pose.My favorite.The one where I get to rest and pretend I'm being productive.
I stay there for a long moment, forehead pressed to the mat, breathing in the lingering scent of yesterday's lavender spray I use to "set intentions". The anxiety from the nightmare fades to a dull ache rather than a sharp panic. Progress.
You're okay. You're safe. Kael can't hurt you anymore. You left. You survived. You're building something new.
I finish my routine with some gentle hip openers and a final savasana that I may extend into a brief nap.
Sue me. It's 5 AM and I earned it.
Showering in my tiny bathroom is always an adventure.
The water pressure fluctuates between "gentle spring rain" and "pressure washer set to stun," and the temperature has exactly two settings:arctic and surface-of-the-sun.
But today, I manage to hit that sweet spot of perfectly warm, and I stand under the spray longer than necessary, letting the water wash away the last remnants of the nightmare.
