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I hit "Go Live."

Lighting: adjusted. Earrings: overthought. Not because I’m nervous—just because the algorithm worships symmetry.

The chat is already rolling before I even open my mouth.

@SelfCareSlay: “Yesss it’s EMILY O’CLOCK”

@PixieTherapist: “Let’s talk soft power babyyy”

I smile into the camera.

“Hi everyone,” I say. “Tonight’s topic: soft power. Specifically, what happens when performative masculinity feels real. When you meet someone who says all the right things, does all the right moves, but somewhere deep down—you can feel the disconnect.”

The chat explodes with flame emojis and personal anecdotes that read like dating autopsies.

“Because let’s be honest,” I continue, “we’ve all been there. You meet a guy. He opens the door, quotes Rumi, remembers your coffee order. And for three weeks, you’re convinced he’s the missing link between therapy and orgasms.”

I sip water and lean closer.

“But then the cracks show. Not huge. Just enough to trip you. Like he says the word ‘feminine essence’ unironically. Or he gets weirdly quiet when you ask what he was like as a kid. And suddenly, it all feels... rehearsed.”

@WitchyRhonda: “YES. IT’S ALWAYS A SCRIPT.”

@MargoWithBoundaries: “This is a TED Talk and a seance.”

I smile, pleased. I’m hitting my stride .

“And that’s the danger of soft power,” I say. “It feels safe. It feels intentional. But if it’s built on mimicry instead of truth, it’s not a relationship. It’s branding.”

Fifteen minutes later, I’m mid Q&A, basking in the glow of a 12k viewer count and a comment section full of praise hands and "YES, QUEEN" energy. I’ve just finished a bit on emotional mimicry—how “healing language” gets co-opted by men who’ve never been within 500 feet of a feeling—when a new video question request pings in.

Username: @GrowthInProgress

New account. Blurred profile pic. Verified.

Hmm. Slightly sus, but the submitted question is pure earnest energy:

“What would you say to someone who followed all the emotional growth advice, tried really hard, but still got judged when they showed their real self?”

I sigh, warmed. “This,” I say into the mic, “is exactly the kind of question we need to normalize.”

I click “Accept.”

The screen glitches once.

Then clears.

@HotGirlData: “Wait. WAIT. Is that—?”

@FeministButThirsty: “ADRIAN ZAYNE???”

Yes, it’s him.

The man whose videos have more views than the CDC’s COVID page.

Smiling like a cat in a mouse costume.

The chat detonates.

@JennieComeGetHim: “ NOOOOOOO”

@TherapizeMeDaddy: “I KNEW ‘growthinprogress’ was sus”

I slam the mod panel.

“You used a burner account.”

“I used a curiosity-forward alias,” he says.

“You ambushed my stream.”

“I joined your community circle. Calmly.”

“You’re trending already.”

He grins. “A man’s gotta eat.”

The chat is chaos.

@ZetaGate: “WE NEED MODS AND AN OIL CLEANSE”

@HotGirlAcademic: “this is now a case study in gendered sabotage”

@ShipOrShred: “...I hate them. Also I need them to kiss.”

I stare him down. “Fine. What’s your actual question?”

He leans back. “It’s more of a case study. About a student of mine. Let’s call him... Trevor.”

My stomach drops. The cocktail. The bar called Bar. The Patagonia vest that deserves jail time.

He wouldn’t.

Oh, he would.

“Trevor,” Adrian continues, “is what we call a ‘late bloomer with brand enthusiasm.’ He subscribed to my newsletter. Watched every video. Once tagged me in a selfie with the caption ‘High-Value Energy.’”

The chat is giggling like a slumber party.

@CringeAndCo: “NO NOT HIGH VALUE ENERGY”

@SpiritualCatfish: “this is why I date women”

“Trevor tried,” Adrian goes on. “He cleaned up. Worked on his posture. Got new cologne. He was proud. He was ready. And then—he matched with a woman he admired.”

Oh no.

“He took her to a minimalist bar. Complimented her boundaries. Quoted dopamine discipline. Offered to ‘contain her feminine energy’ halfway through a $19 cocktail.”

I stare straight into the lens like it might suck me out of this reality.

“That woman?” Adrian says, his voice dipping into soft smug.

“You...” I gasp.

“You!” he echoes. “Emily. Saint of Emotional Depth. Crusader against My Entire Deal. And there you were—on a date with my disciple.”

The chat riots.

@IsHeReal: “WAIT. SHE DATED A ZETA?”

@NotMeDrinkingTurmeric: “EMILY. EXPLAIN.”

@ShamefullyTeamAdrian: “i’m living and dying simultaneously”

My face is on fire.

Then—

With one smug click, Adrian’s Zoom background shifts.

The bar. That bar. And the selfie of Trevor and Adrian, with me in the background. I’m shot mid-lip bite.

The chat riots harder.

@BuzzBattleOfficial: “HE DID NOT JUST GREENSCREEN HER DATE”

@EmilyILoveYouBut: “that was a lip bite. a submission signal.”

@ShipOrShred: “I hate them. I need them to kiss. I need therapy.”

Adrian folds his hands like a smug little dating demon at a TED Talk. “You keep calling it manipulation. I call it a predictable outcome.”

I blink. Once. Twice. My soul tries to detach and float out the window, but my ring light traps it.

“You stalked my life and turned it into décor.”

“I prefer: curated a multimedia learning moment.”

“You're insane.”

“And yet,” he says, gesturing lazily behind him, “so are the vibes.”

“Full analysis goes live tomorrow on my channel,” Adrian continues. “Working title: When the Slayer Catches Feelings.”

I click “End Stream.”

The screen blinks.

Adrian smirks like he won.

And then—he’s gone.

I black out for three seconds. When I come to, the chat is still rolling.

@SoftPowerGate: “I WASN’T GOING TO WATCH NEXT WEEK BUT NOW I’M HOSTING A VIEWING PARTY”

@DatingDisasterClub: “REPLAY BUTTON IS EXHAUSTED”

@ShipOrShred: “this isn’t content it’s an ecosystem and I live here now”

I close the laptop.

Close my eyes.

Scream into a pillow.

Trevor. Freaking. Trevor .

Next time I date someone in a Patagonia vest, I’m checking his subscription history first.