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Emily Parrish has uploaded a new episode.

Title: Mistakes Were Moaned .

My stomach flips first—something halfway between guilt and indigestion. Then comes the thought: At least she’s still breathing fire . Part of me is relieved. The other part—smaller, quieter—braces for a monologue with my name in blood-red subtext.

I click.

There she is. No intro. No filter. Just her and a white wall. The lighting isn’t even that flattering.

“I haven’t recorded in a while,” she says. “Partly because I was ashamed. Mostly because I didn’t know what version of myself was still allowed to speak.”

Okay. So this isn’t a hit piece. I adjust the volume.

“It’s a weird kind of grief, when the thing that breaks you is something you technically chose. I chose to trust. To speak. To feel something. And someone turned it into a promo clip.”

Guilt flares again, sharp and hot. I shut it down just as fast. I didn’t leak it. I didn’t even touch the file.

Still. I shift in my chair.

“The worst part wasn’t the Internet remixing me like a pop culture cautionary tale. It was realizing I’d stopped recognizing my own voice.”

I exhale through my nose, hard. She’s doing it again. Making it sound universal, poetic, tragic—and somehow mine .

It’s weird, hearing her voice out loud again. Not in a clip. Not in a remix. Just... her.

And it makes me feel—

Well.

Nothing.

Obviously.

It just reminds me how long it’s been since someone made silence feel like a conversation. That’s all.

“Here’s the thing no one tells you about humiliation—it doesn’t kill you. It gives you clarity.”

I lean back again. Right. This isn’t revenge. It’s clarity. And she’s found it without me. Without even looking for me in it.

Some dark, low voice inside me mutters: Good for her .

“I thought if I lost the perfect narrative, I lost my voice. Turns out my voice never needed perfection. Just honesty. And a mic.”

The screen goes black.

I stay staring at it like it might turn back on and say just kidding .

It doesn’t.

I open a new tab. Click on the episode stats. Ten thousand views. Low watch-to-like ratio. The comments?

Consistent engagement. Emotional resonance. Minimal trolling.

Classic slow-burn sleeper. Not a scandal. A moment.

God, she’s good.

No theatrics. No venom. Just clarity. Like she’s wrestled it all down to truth and let it speak for itself.

I want to text her .

Not to explain. Not even to apologize, which is new for me. Just... to say I saw it. That I heard her. That she’s not alone in the fallout.

But I don’t.

Because let’s be real—if I were her, I’d assume this was all my fault too. And even if I tried to help, it would look like PR damage control wrapped in emotional narcissism with a bow of let’s talk off-camera.

Which it wouldn’t be. Not entirely. But she'd never believe that. And honestly? I wouldn’t blame her.

She rose from the ashes and I was part of the arson.

Still. I’m glad she posted.

Glad she’s okay.

Glad she’s found something to hold onto that doesn’t involve pretending to be okay for someone else’s benefit.

I tell myself that’s all it is. Relief.

Not nostalgia. Not the part of me that still remembers the way she fell asleep and buried her face in the pillow like she’d made it to safe harbor.

Just relief.

I close the laptop. Stand up.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m driving toward the one person who still believes I’m salvageable.