Down 35 followers while filming that one video.
Stop checking. It's making it worse.
But I couldn't stop. Checking was as automatic as breathing now.
I needed to see what Drew was posting.
I navigated to his Instagram—@DrewMortimerLife—and immediately regretted it.
His latest post was from three hours ago. Him with his arm around a pretty brunette, both grinning at the camera, holding Starbucks cups. The caption:New beginnings taste like peppermint mochas????
890,231 likes.
He'd gained followers since the breakup.
Cool. Cool, cool, cool. Not spiraling at all. Totally fine.
He's moved on. You need to move on too.
I was simply going to create content so good, so authentic, so engaging that everyone would forget about the breakup video.
Because I had $3,487 in my bank account, a rental property I could barely afford, and no backup plan.
TURNING MY PHONE FACE-down, I looked around the space. Now that the initial shock had worn off, the cottage was actually kind of charming in its over-the-top way. Small but cozy. The tree lights twinkled cheerfully. Through the window, I could see snow falling softly, like something out of a snow globe.
I should sleep. I'd been up for almost twenty-four hours.
But I was wired, running on adrenaline and desperation and too much caffeine.
I'll just explore town for a bit. Get some footage. Then I'll come back and crash.
I should have known better.
I spent the rest of the day meandering along the cobblestone streets of downtown Hope Peak while I filmed. The general store was stocked with handmade ornaments, and jars oflocally-sourced honey and fruit preserves were displayed in the windows. Families bundled in colorful coats and scarves were ice skating in the rink adjacent to the town square.
At Higher Grounds, the coffee shop was warm and crowded, the espresso machine hissing while Bing Crosby crooned about white Christmases. The barista smiled as she handed me my latte. "First time in Hope Peak?"
"That obvious?"
"You're photographing our annual holiday tree like you've never seen pine needles before." Her grin was warm. "Welcome to town."
I smiled back, the tension in my chest loosening slightly. Small-town friendliness. This was exactly what I needed.
I filmed everything. Quick clips for Stories, longer shots for potential posts, candid moments of small-town charm. A woman with gray hair and a colorful scarf waved at my camera. Two kids threw snowballs near the gazebo, their laughter carrying on the cold air.
The whole time, I smiled at strangers. Complimented someone's coat. Asked about favorite holiday traditions. My mouth said the right things, but I knew I was just going through the motions.
A few people recognized me—a teenage girl asked for a photo, and I smiled brightly even though I could see the pity in her eyes.
Note to self: humiliation follows you everywhere, even to towns with populations under 4,000.
By evening, I was back at the rental with takeout from Skyline Bar & Grill—gooey mac-n-cheese and fries, comfort food that tasted like giving up—reviewing footage on my laptop.
It was technically fine. Good lighting, decent composition, usable clips.
But nothing special. Nothing that would make it go viral.
I checked my analytics.
