By the time we pull into the driveway, my brain feels like one big group chat—too many voices, too many notifications, too many things I still haven't answered.
Miles kills the engine and looks over at me.
"You sure?" he asks.
I stare at the mansion, at the front door that still doesn't feel like it belongs to my life. "No," I say. "But let's go anyway."
He huffs a quiet laugh. "That's my girl."
The second we walk in, the house greets us with silence. No clacking heels from my mom, no echo of my stepdad's deep voice on some important call. Just this big, glossy emptiness.
For once, I'm grateful.
I kick off my Jordans by the door and drop my bag, exhaling like I've been holding my breath since fourth period.
"Kitchen?" Miles asks.
"Kitchen," I confirm.
He heads that way, automatically moving like he's lived here longer than I have. I trail behind, my fingers hovering over my phone.
Seraph: we outside in 3 min. open the gate before i climb it
Niqua: i brought snacks and violence
A weak laugh escapes me. Of course they did.
I tap the security app my stepdad insisted on and buzz them in. A moment later I hear the front door slam open and chaos blow in with the Brooklyn air.
"Jay-BAY!"
"Where's my wounded princess?"
They both descend on me at once—Seraph wrapping her arms around my shoulders, Niqua hooking me by the waist from the other side.
"I survived one day of school," I mumble into Seraph's hair. "Do I get a trophy?"
"You get wine—oh wait, you're eighteen," Seraph says. "You get… juice in a wine glass. And my undying loyalty."
"And my fist if anyone tries you again," Niqua adds.
Miles appears in the kitchen doorway, holding a bowl of popcorn like some domestic fever dream.
"You two cutting off her oxygen," he points out.
"Jealous?" Seraph shoots back.
"Always," he says easily.
I roll my eyes and step back, pulling my curls into a messy ponytail. "Okay, listen," I say. "We can clown later. We said we'd figure out… the video thing."
The words taste like metal.
Seraph's grin fades a little. "Right," she says. "Media war. Round two."
Miles sets the popcorn down. "Couch for me?" he asks, nodding toward the living room. "I'll stay out of the way."
I catch his eyes. "You can be in the room," I say. "Just—no… input."
He smirks. "Hardest thing anyone's ever asked me to do, but I'll try."
We migrate to the living room. The giant TV hangs over the fireplace like a quiet threat. Sunlight spills through tall windows, painting soft rectangles of light on the floor.
Seraph claims one armchair like a throne. Niqua plops on the rug and crosses her legs. I sink into the couch, my phone cold and heavy in my hand. Miles takes the far end, close enough I can feel his heat, far enough he's pretending about two inches makes a difference.
"Okay," Seraph says, clapping once. "Step one: are we posting or not posting?"
I stare at the blank screen of my phone. My reflection stares back—eyes a little swollen from the bathroom cry, lip gloss faded, hoops still in.
"I don't want to give them more attention," I say slowly. "But I also… don't want Tia's video to be the only version anyone here sees."
Niqua nods. "So we don't respond to them," she says. "We respond to us."
"And what does that even mean?" I ask.
"Content, baby," Seraph says, wiggling her fingers. "We don't talk about Dan or Makayla by name. We don't mention their page. We don't stitch or duet or whatever. We do our own thing. Soft, calm, annoying in how unbothered you look."
"I'm not unbothered," I mutter.
"Right, but they don't get to see that part," she replies.
Miles shifts, fighting a smile. "She's not wrong," he says quietly.
I lean my head back against the couch, staring at the crown molding on the ceiling. "What would I even… say?"
Niqua taps her chin. "Start with your ocean," she says.
I frown. "My what?"
"You told Ms. Carter home was water," she reminds me. "That receipts from San Ángel thing? That was you. Not them. That's a story."
Seraph snaps her fingers. "Oooh. That's good. We frame it as 'getting to know me,' not 'addressing drama.' If they read between the lines, that's their business."
My chest tightens. "So I just… talk about myself? Like some cringe influencer introduction?"
"Less cringe, more you," Seraph says. "No fake voice. No 'hey guys' energy. Just… Jayla, looking into the camera like she's tired of everybody's shit."
"That's easy," I say dryly.
Miles finally speaks up properly. "You could do a series," he says. "Short clips. Thirty seconds each. One about San Ángel. One about Brooklyn. One about what you'll take and what you won't."
I look at him. "Since when do you know about series?"
He shrugs. "I dated a girl who did hair tutorials once. I learned some things."
Niqua makes a face. "We're gonna ignore that."
I chew my lip. "What if it backfires?"
"What if it doesn't?" Seraph counters.
"What if nobody cares?" I push.
"Then we had a sleepover and took cute videos," Niqua says. "Who cares."
Silence settles like dust.
I sit up a little straighter.
"Okay," I say. "Okay. Fine. We'll film one. Just one. If I hate it, we never post it. Deal?"
"Deal," they say in unison.
Miles lifts his hands in surrender. "No input," he repeats. "I'm a couch decoration."
"Finally, some honesty," I murmur.
Seraph grabs my phone. "Unlock it," she orders.
"Wow," I say. "Buy me dinner first."
She glares. I roll my eyes and put my thumb on the screen.
She opens the camera app and flips it to front-facing, then studies my face through the lens.
"Come here," she says, beckoning me closer to the window.
We move to a spot where the late afternoon light hits just right—soft, golden, making my skin look warmer, my eyes brighter. She balances the phone against a vase and some books, makeshift tripod style.
Niqua fusses with my hair, fluffing one side, smoothing down the other. "There," she says. "Main character levels restored."
My stomach flips.
Seraph steps back. "Okay. Just breathe," she says. "You don't have to get it perfect in one take. This isn't live."
"That's what you think," I mutter.
"Ready?" she asks.
I stare at myself on the little screen, at the girl who doesn't look like the one in Dan's video. That girl looked desperate, grainy, stolen. This one looks… tired, yes. But not broken.
"Just hit record," I say.
She does.
The red dot blinks.
I suck in a breath.
"Hi," I say. My voice sounds small. I clear my throat. Start again. "I'm Jayla."
My accent flattens the J a little. I resist the urge to apologize for it.
"I'm from a place called San Ángel," I continue. "It's small. Salty. Loud. You can hear the ocean from almost every window. My uncle owns the little tienda on the corner. I still have the receipt from the last time I bought chips there."
My eyes flick to the side, to where my phone case sits on the coffee table, my old life folded up in faded thermal ink.
"I moved here… because my mom fell in love with somebody who could give her a different life," I say slowly. "Not because I hated my old one. Not because I was running from anything. Because she picked love. And… when she picks something, it becomes my thing too."
A smile tugs at my mouth, small and sad and fond.
"So now I'm in Brooklyn," I go on. "Learning how to be the new girl again. Learning how to trade waves for subway lines and salsa for drill. Learning how to exist in a place where everybody already thinks they know your story before you even open your mouth."
My throat tightens.
"But here's the thing," I say, voice firmer. "You can't know someone's whole life from a thirty-second clip. Or a screenshot. Or somebody else's side of the story. I'm more than one mistake. More than one breakup. More than someone else's 'crazy ex' character."
Heat flashes under my skin.
"I'm the girl who misses the ocean so much she keeps seashells in a mansion bathroom," I say, a laugh slipping out. "I'm the sister who buys two of everything because Layla always steals mine. I'm the friend who will ride or die for you until you give me a reason not to. I'm learning. I'm messing up. I'm trying again."
I look straight at the lens, imagining every person who's seen my name in a caption, every stranger who made up their mind without ever hearing my voice.
"If you're here for drama," I say quietly, "you're gonna get bored. If you're here to watch me be human… pull up a seat. There's room."
My chest aches.
I exhale slowly.
"Anyway," I add, lips quirking, "that's it. That's the intro. I'm Jayla. I'm from the water. I live in Brooklyn now. And I'm still figuring the rest out."
I hold the camera's gaze for one beat.
Two.
Seraph taps the screen. The red dot disappears.
For a moment, the room is silent.
Then Niqua lets out a low whistle. "Bitch," she says softly. "You just A24‑indie‑filmed their asses."
Seraph's eyes are shiny. "That was… good," she says. "Like, annoyingly good."
My heart is pounding. "It was cringe," I say automatically.
Miles speaks up from the couch. "It was you," he says. "That's all it needed to be."
I swallow, staring at the little thumbnail on screen.
"Do we post it?" Seraph asks.
The question hangs in the air like a dare.
My thumb hovers.
This is the line. Before and after. Once it's out there, I can't yank it back from the ocean of other people's opinions.
I think of Grandma in her little New York apartment, watching the news, sending me texts with too many emojis. I think of Layla back home, hearing whispers in hallways she didn't ask for. I think of the girl in my Media class who flinched when someone said "my father's temper," of every girl who ever got turned into someone's villain because it made a better story.
"What if nobody cares?" I ask, voice barely above a whisper.
Seraph shrugs. "Then it's just us," she says. "Watching you tell the truth."
"What if everyone cares?" I push.
Miles answers this time. "Then they finally get something honest to care about," he says.
I take a breath.
Then I hit upload.
We sit there like idiots, staring at the screen as if the internet is going to explode in the next two seconds.
"Refresh," Niqua whispers.
"It's been eight seconds," I say.
"Refresh," Seraph hisses.
I swipe down.
0 likes.
3 likes.
A comment pops up.
@oceansaremine: this hit harder than it should. i moved too. i get it.
Another.
@bklyn_baby: 'i'm more than one breakup' SAY IT LOUDER.
Another.
@salty_sun: i'm from a small town too. keep talking, girl.
No Dan.
No Makayla.
Just… girls.
People.
Listening.
Something in my chest unclenches.
"We made a dent," Seraph says, peering over my shoulder.
"It's just the first wave," Niqua adds. "Wait till the tide hits."
I laugh weakly. "Y'all really committed to the ocean metaphors, huh?"
Miles smiles from the couch. "Fits," he says.
My phone buzzes with a new notification.
Grandma: Ma petite. I saw. I am proud of you. Your ocean is big. Do not let small minds drown you.
I press my lips together, blinking hard.
Seraph sees it, squeezes my shoulder. "You good?"
I nod. "Yeah," I say. "Actually… yeah."
We spend the next hour sprawled across the living room—Miles on the couch, me half on his chest, Seraph and Niqua arguing on the rug about whether my next video should be about "Brooklyn food trauma" or "how to spot fake friends in under ten seconds."
I don't know what happens tomorrow.
If Dan will post again.
If Makayla will rewrite herself as the victim.
If kids at school will laugh at my video or play it on loop just to pull it apart.
But right now, in this house that finally feels a little less like someone else's life, with my girls on the floor and Miles's heartbeat steady under my ear, one thing is clear.
I'm not silent anymore.
And for once, the waves inside me aren't crashing.
They're carrying me.
Toward something new.
Toward something that might, slowly, finally, start to feel like home.