Scooping up my phone, I scroll through the post-stream analytics, watching the numbers climb. Shares are up. Engagement is up. Sponsors are going to love this.
A notification pops up at the top of my screen.
New message from user:3718406
My thumb hovers over it and I bite my lip. I don’t recognize the handle, but that’s not unusual. I get dozens of DMs a day from followers wanting product recommendations or just saying hi.It’s part of the gig—the connection, the community. It’s what I love most about what I do.
I tap it open.
You looked so pretty in the sunlight this morning. The way it came through your window and hit your hair. Like gold. I couldn’t look away.
“What the hell?”
I read it again. Then once more, slower. “The way it came through my window?”
My eyes slice to the windows across my loft—both wide open, curtains pulled back to let in the natural light I need for filming.
Outside my window are buildings, and behind that is the ocean. Literally anyone walking by could have seen inside my apartment.
I’m on my feet in a flash, my chair rolling backward and hitting my filming desk. I cross the apartment in hurried strides, yanking the curtains closed on the first window so hard the rings screech against the rod. Then the second. The loft goes dark except for the fairy lights strung along the ceiling.
The hair on my arms is standing on end.
This is the third creepy message that I’ve gotten.
The first one came two weeks ago. I wrote it off as an oddball fan being weird.I missed your live today and hate myself for it. You work so hard, and I let you down.
A little creepy? Sure, but the internet is full of creeps, and I’ve learned to shake it off.
The second one came four days later.I think about you all the time. I feel so connected to you.
That one made my skin crawl, but I told myself it was nothing. I chalked it up to them not realizing how that comes across.
But this one...
The way it came through your window and hit your hair.
That’s not a guess. That’s someonewatchingme. Up close. Close enough to see my hair in the sunlight.
I press my back against the wall between the covered windows, my phone clutched to my chest, and try to slow my breathing.
Maybe I need to file a police report or something.
And say what?Hey, some anonymous person on the internet is sending me messages?
I’m an influencer with 3.2 million followers. Getting weird messages is practically in the job description. The police aren’t going to care. They’ll tell me to block the account and move on.
Which is exactly what I’ve already done. Twice. The creep must make a new account after I block them.
My phone vibrates in my hand, and I yelp. The device slips from my fingers and clatters to the hardwood floor.
“Crap!” I press a shaky hand over my racing heart and stand there for a second, just breathing, feeling stupid for being startled by my own phone. “Get a grip, June.”
I bend down and scoop it off the floor, flipping it over to check the screen.
Stella: Heyyy you busy? Me and Brooklyn want to grab coffee at Sugar Shack. You in??
I blink at the text, my brain still half-stuck in fight-or-flight mode. Then I blink again. Wait…
