If peace had a sound, it would be the buzz of my phone on the nightstand at 3:17 a.m.
Not a loud ringtone.
Not an alarm.
Just that constant, low vibration, over and over and over, like a restless heartbeat.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Buzz.
I roll over with a groan, yanking the blanket over my head.
"Shut up," I mumble.
It doesn't.
Buzz.
"Jayla," a sleepy voice says near my ear.
I freeze.
Right.
Miles is here.
Not wrapped around me this time—after our closet episode and the almost-everything on the yoga mat, we decided "shared bed nights" needed to be regulated like prescription pills—but sprawled on the little couch near my window, long legs hanging off the side, one arm draped over his face.
He peeks out from under it. "Your phone's having a seizure."
I sigh, shove the covers back, and reach for the glowing rectangle of doom.
142 new notifications.
Oh.
Oh no.
My stomach flips.
I open Instagram first.
Overnight, the views on my video jumped from a few thousand to…
89.3K.
My heart lodges in my throat.
"Shit," I whisper.
"What?" Miles asks, instantly more awake.
"Nothing," I lie.
He swings his legs off the couch and walks over, hair a mess, T-shirt wrinkled. "You're a terrible liar," he says. "Show me."
I angle the screen away. "No."
He raises an eyebrow. "Princesa."
I groan, then shove the phone into his hand.
He squints at the numbers as his brain catches up.
"Damn," he breathes. "You went viral."
My chest tightens. "Don't say that like it's a good thing."
He scrolls through the comments.
@smalltown_siren: cried in my mamá's kitchen watching this. thank u.
@brooklynbad: they really did u dirty and u still came out soft AND strong. talent.
@saltypaloma: as a girl who moved 'cause of her mom's choices… this hurt.
There are hundreds.
Little heart emojis.
Blue ocean waves.
Stories.
I don't know these people, but they feel… familiar.
Then there's the DM tab.
I hesitate.
"Don't," Miles says quietly.
"I have to," I argue.
"Not the ones from them," he says. "Not at three in the morning."
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes again.
A notification from an account I know better than I want to.
@dan.mrq tagged you in a video.
I stare at it.
Of course.
Of course he couldn't leave it alone.
"Play it," I say, throat dry.
Miles doesn't move.
"Miles," I repeat.
He searches my face for a second, then exhales and taps the notification.
Dan's face fills the screen again.
New hoodie, same bedroom. Different caption this time.
Storytime pt. 2: When Victims Leave Out Details.
I want to throw up.
He starts talking.
"So, since my ex wants to post these poetic little videos about oceans and 'being more than one breakup,'" he says, making finger quotes, "I guess I gotta give y'all context. 'Cause that's what we do here, right? Full transparency."
His smirk makes my hands curl into fists.
"I'm not here to drag her," he says. "We were together a long time. I loved her. But love doesn't make you blind. Jayla was texting other dudes before she moved. I seen the messages. Flirty. Emojis. You know the vibes."
"No, you didn't," I whisper.
"She told y'all she left for her mom's happiness," he goes on, "but she also left right when it got hard between us. When we were supposed to grow up together. She blocked me before we could fix it. Then she got a whole new life, new man, new friends, and suddenly I'm the villain?"
He shakes his head at the camera, playing hurt.
"Look, I made mistakes too," he says. "I'm not perfect. But don't let pretty words fool you. Sometimes people use 'trauma' as a costume to hide what they did. You feel me?"
The video ends.
My ears ring.
Miles is watching me, jaw tight, eyes dark.
"He's lying," I say. My voice sounds far away. "He's taking half-truths and… and bending them until they crack."
"I know," Miles says. His tone is low, controlled. "We know."
"But they don't," I snap. "The comments—"
I snatch the phone back and scroll down.
It's a mess.
@teagirlxo: this is why I don't trust 'storytimes' from one side.
@danstan99: men get abused too, y'all just don't wanna hear it.
@makayla.bby: ppl don't wanna hear from the real ones involved. they prefer fairytales.
My vision blurs.
"He's painting me as the abuser," I choke out. "As the one who did damage. As the one who—"
"Stop," Miles says sharply.
I do.
He scrubs a hand over his face. "Okay," he says, exhaling. "We're not doing this in the dark at three a.m. Put the phone down."
"I can't," I say. "It's my life. It's my name. I have to—"
"You have to sleep," he cuts in. "You have to not let him drag you into an all-nighter panic spiral just because he hit 'post.'"
"He's lying to thousands of people about me," I whisper. "About who I am."
He steps closer, crowding my space in that way he does when he wants my attention locked on him and not everything else.
"You posted your truth," he says. "You don't owe him a rebuttal every time he opens his mouth."
I glare at him, blinking back tears. "So what, I just let him keep going?"
He doesn't answer right away.
The silence says enough.
"You think I should ignore it," I realize.
"I think," he says slowly, "you should pick your battles. And your peace."
Peace.
What a stupid, impossible word.
"I can't just be peaceful while he calls me crazy to his followers," I say. "While Makayla throws shade in the comments. While people here start wondering if I really am—"
"Stop giving him that power," Miles says, frustration edging his voice now. "He only has it if you keep handing it over."
"Easy for you to say," I snap. "Nobody's making slander edits about you."
He goes very still.
Instant regret hits me.
"That's not what I—" I start.
He holds up a hand.
There's a flash of something in his eyes—hurt, maybe. Or something older, sharper.
"You think nobody's ever told stories about me?" he asks quietly. "You think the word 'thug' hasn't been thrown around since I was fourteen? You think I haven't had cops, teachers, even my own father decide who I am before I even opened my mouth?"
I open my mouth, then close it.
He continues, voice low but steady.
"I fight in underground rings," he says. "That's my choice. That's on me. But every time somebody posts a clip, there's a new narrative. 'Angry Black man.' 'Dangerous.' 'Lost cause.' That shit sticks. It affects my job, my record, the way people look at your mom for bringing me into this house. You're not the only one whose story gets stolen."
I stare at him, shame creeping up my spine.
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
He shakes his head. "I'm not saying it's the same," he says. "I'm saying I get it. And I'm saying if you respond every single time, you'll drown. You'll never do anything else. They'll own your time, your energy, your sleep. Is that what you want?"
"No," I say, my voice tiny.
"Then we set a line," he says. "Right here. Right now."
A line.
My whole life has been lines I didn't draw—borders, rules, expectations.
The idea that I could choose one… feels huge.
"How?" I ask.
He takes a breath. "We decide what's worth answering and what isn't. Not based on how loud it is, but on what it costs you to let it in," he says. "Dan posting another manipulative video? That's noise. Him trying to show up here? Him messing with your little sister back home? That's a threat. Different responses."
I nod slowly. "So we ignore… this." I gesture at the screen.
"For now," he says.
It feels wrong.
It feels like letting him win.
It also feels like… relief.
"I don't know if I can," I admit.
Miles's shoulders loosen. "Then we build something between you and it," he says. "So you're not just raw skin every time you scroll."
I frown. "Like what? A firewall?"
He huffs a laugh. "Like boundaries, genius."
He reaches out and gently pries my phone from my fingers.
"Hey—"
"New rule," he says. "No social media after midnight. Your brain deserves quiet."
"You're not my dad," I complain.
"No," he agrees. "I'm the dude who has to watch you shiver yourself to sleep every time your notifications blow up. Big difference."
Something in my chest twinges.
"Rule number two," he continues. "You don't read comments alone if the post is about this drama. Ever. If you wanna go in, we do it together. Or with Seraph and Niqua. Squad or nothing."
I picture them, side by side on my living room floor, shrieking at my screen like it's a live TV finale.
"Okay," I say slowly. "Squad or nothing."
"And rule number three," he says. "If Dan tags you again, we don't dance on his page. We don't stitch, duet, subtweet. We starve him out. Block. Mute. Whatever. You already said what you needed to say. Anything else is just you letting him live rent-free in your head."
My jaw clenches.
"I hate that I care," I whisper.
"I know," he says gently. "But caring doesn't mean engaging."
Silence falls.
My phone, now face-down in his hand, goes mercifully still.
"Come back to bed," he says. "Please. Before you start writing a notes app essay in your brain."
I let out a shaky laugh.
"Fine," I mutter.
He walks over to the nightstand and sets my phone down, screen still pressed to the wood.
Then he looks back at me. "You want me on the couch or…?"
I think about the way I woke up two hours ago—in that fleeting, perfect moment before my phone started screaming. Warm. Held.
"Here," I say quietly, patting the space beside me.
His eyes search mine. "You sure?"
I nod.
He slips under the blanket, careful at first, like he's afraid of crossing another invisible line.
I roll onto my side, back to him.
A second later, his arm wraps around my waist.
"Better?" he murmurs.
"Ask me in the morning," I mumble.
When morning comes, it's not better.
Not at first.
The video has doubled in views. Mine and his.
But there's something new under Dan's latest post.
A pinned comment.
From me.
Not a paragraph.
Not a spiral.
Just three words.
Please stop lying.
He replies within minutes.
I'm not, but okay. Wishing you healing.
The fake concern makes me see red.
"Block him," Miles says over my shoulder.
I stare at the screen.
My thumb hovers.
"I don't want to look like I'm running," I say.
"You're not running," he says. "You're closing the door."
I think of Grandma's words.
Do not let them mold you into something you are not.
I think of the ocean.
How real waves don't argue with rocks.
They just keep moving.
I hit block.
Instagram asks if I'm sure.
Yes.
Makayla next.
Yes.
The second I do, it's like a string snaps in my chest.
Lighter.
Still sore.
But lighter.
"You just chose peace," Miles says quietly.
"I just chose not to see his stupid face," I correct.
"Same thing," he replies.
School that day is… weirdly normal.
People still look.
Of course they do.
A few ask if I saw Dan's part two. When I say I blocked him, their eyes widen.
"You can do that?" one girl asks.
"You can," I say. "And I did."
At lunch, Seraph throws herself into the seat across from me.
"You blocked them?" she demands.
I blink. "How did you—"
"Niqua texted me the second your online status went off," she says.
Niqua leans on my shoulder from behind. "We stan a boundary queen," she announces.
"It doesn't fix anything," I say.
"Maybe not out there," Seraph says, jerking her chin toward the vague idea of the internet. "But in here?" She taps her temple. "That's huge."
I poke at my food.
"What if they keep talking?" I ask. "What if they twist my block into proof I'm hiding?"
"Then they talk to themselves," Niqua says. "You won't hear it."
Seraph grins. "And if they get too loud, we'll drown them out with more content. Not about them. About you. Your life. Your parties. Your outfits. Your fine-ass non-boyfriend."
"He's not my boyfriend," I protest.
"Sure, ocean girl," she says. "Keep saying that."
I glance across the cafeteria where Miles is dropping off something at the office window, hoodie up, curls escaping, jaw set.
My chest aches.
"He's just… mine," I say quietly.
Niqua snorts. "Labels or not, that's way more dangerous."
After school, we end up back at my house again—me, Seraph, Niqua, and Miles. It's starting to feel routine. Dangerous, familiar.
We park ourselves in the living room. Homework spreads across the coffee table next to half-eaten chips and open notebooks. Netflix mumbles in the background, forgotten.
"Okay," Seraph says, twirling a pen. "Real question. How far are we gonna let this go before we go full petty?"
Miles raises a brow. "Define 'full petty.'"
"Exposing Dan's DMs," she says. "Leaking Makayla's thirst traps. Having Mason edit a compilation of his worst angles with clown music."
I choke on my water.
"No," I say, laughing. "Absolutely not."
"Boring," she mutters.
"I'm serious," I say. "If we start playing their game, we become them. I don't want to be them."
Niqua nods. "Plus, that gives them more content," she says. "They'd love that. 'See? She's obsessed with me.'"
I shudder. "Kill me," I mutter.
Miles leans back, stretching an arm along the back of the couch behind me. "What if," he says slowly, "we shift focus completely?"
"Explain, philosopher," Seraph says.
"Jayla's video blew up because it was different," he says. "Soft. Real. What if instead of letting them drag her into this messy he-said-she-said, we turn her into something else here? Not 'the girl from the drama,' but… the girl from the ocean. The girl who throws parties. The girl who sings her lungs out at three a.m. The girl who—"
"Okay, we get it," I interrupt, face hot.
He shrugs unapologetically. "Let them keep talking about old Jayla online. We build new Jayla out here."
I hate that it makes sense.
"I don't want my whole identity to be content," I say.
"It's not," Niqua says. "It's also vibes. And outfits."
"And yoga," Miles adds.
"And the way you look at the water like it's a person," Seraph says softly.
I pause.
"Do I…?"
"Yes," they say together.
I sink back into the couch, overwhelmed by these ridiculous, loud, loyal people who somehow crashed into my new life and decided to stay.
"How far do we go, then?" I ask. "Like, if Dan keeps posting. If Makayla starts telling people I hit her or something. If this never stops."
Miles is quiet for a moment.
"As far as we can without losing ourselves," he says finally. "The second you feel that happening, we pull back. We go offline. We touch grass. We touch water."
"Touch water," I repeat.
"Beach trip," Seraph translates. "Emergency ocean reset."
"Can we do that?" I ask. "Just… disappear when it gets loud?"
"Yes," Miles says. "You forget—this is your life. You get to walk away from the screen. If people want you that bad, they can write fanfiction."
I snort.
Niqua nudges me. "Promise us something," she says.
"What?"
"That you'll tell us when it's too much," she says. "Not when you're already in meltdown mode. Before."
Her eyes are serious.
"Same for you," I say.
"And me," Seraph adds.
We all look at Miles.
"And you, fighter boy," I say.
He raises his hands. "Fine, fine. I'll let you know before I spiral. Maybe."
I narrow my eyes. "No 'maybe.' Full yes."
He sighs. "Full yes," he agrees.
That night, lying in bed with my phone on Do Not Disturb and Miles already snoring softly on the couch, I stare at the ceiling and think about lines.
About all the ones I never drew.
About the ones I'm starting to.
I think about San Ángel.
About my uncle's store.
About Layla.
I think about calling her. About telling her I'm okay. That I'm trying. That I miss her.
I'll do it tomorrow, I decide.
For once, tomorrow doesn't feel like a threat.
It feels like… possibility.
I roll onto my side, let my eyes fall closed, and for the first time in weeks, sleep comes without a fight.
No waves crashing.
No phone buzzing.
Just the soft, steady rhythm of my own heart.
No one else's story writing it for me.
Just me.
Finally.