#SuperViral, Ch 8: Collateral Damage & Clickbait Pt. 3

There's a unique kind of shame that comes from being the 'other woman' who gets cheated on, and Jenna was drowning in its bitter, ironic tide.

The morning light, thin and grey, came into the apartment. It lit up the scene of the previous night's explosion. The heavy silence was broken by thousands of tiny, sharp points catching the morning light-the shattered remnants of their couple's branded photo collage that had once dominated the living room wall. Each fragment of glass threw back a broken, twisted image of the room. A thousand fractured versions of the #CoupleGoals brand she had built.

She sat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket that still smelled a little like Connor. She felt hollow, the anger and shock replaced by the cold, heavy ash of public shame. The rage had burned itself out, leaving only emptiness.

Her phone lay face down on the coffee table, a sleek black rectangle of silent dread. The influencer's first instinct, a trained response from years of constant online activity, was to check the numbers, to measure the disaster. How many followers had she lost? What was trending? What were the gossip sites saying?

But she resisted. The thought of the digital crucifixion she knew was happening-the memes, the happy commentary, the endless discussions of her failure-was a physical weight, pressing down on her chest, making it hard to breathe. She chose the pain of not knowing over the certainty of what she would find. Every so often, she imagined a phantom buzz, the ghost of a notification, a reminder of the million online voices screaming about her in a world she had deliberately shut out. Connor was gone, the argument was over, and all that was left was the empty echo of his lies and the constant, imagined hum of the phone she refused to touch.

The shame was the worst part.

This shame was different. It carried the specific, karmic sting of her own past actions.

She saw Valora's face in her mind, a ghost at this pity party. She remembered, with painful clarity, the smug satisfaction she had felt back then. She had presented herself as the 'cool girl,' the one who 'understood' Connor's needs when Valora was being so 'demanding' and 'suspicious.' She had been the sympathetic ear for his complaints, the exciting alternative to Valora's supposed neediness. She had been Roxxi. The realization was a slow, creeping horror. Valora's heartbreak. The foundation of their relationship. Her own home, collapsing into the same sinkhole. #TeamValoraWasRight was probably trending, and the most sickening part was, Jenna knew they were right. A fool. A willing participant. The story had come full circle to destroy her.

A real, undeniable buzz finally came from her phone. She flinched. Then another. She forced herself to look. The first was from her agent, Anya. "Don't look at anything online. At all. Turn it all off. We'll handle the initial statement. Just breathe. You're the victim here. Remember that." The word 'victim' felt wrong, like it didn't fit. Was she? Or was she just the fool who finally got played in a game she had helped create?

The second message was from an unknown number, but the preview text sent a chill through her, sharp and sudden. "Hey. Just wanted to say…" She opened it with trembling fingers. "Been there. It gets better. Stay strong." There was no name, but there didn't need to be. It was Valora.

The one person on earth who had every right to gloat, to send a harsh 'I told you so,' had instead offered a simple, plain line of support. It was an act of grace so deep, so unexpected, it shattered the last of Jenna's numb composure. A sob, raw and ragged, tore from her throat. It was the first sound she had made all morning. She curled into a tighter ball on the couch. The tears that came were for her own past cruelty, for Valora's quiet strength, and for the devastating, humbling shame of it all. She wept for the woman she had been, and for the hollowed-out stranger she was now, surrounded by the scattered fragments of a life built on a beautiful lie.

A few days later, the silence in the apartment had changed from a state of shock into a low, humming anxiety. The first wave of support from friends and family had faded, leaving Jenna in a professional limbo. The digital world she had so carefully built was now a minefield. Anya, her agent, was relentless. "You have to get ahead of this, Jenna. You can't let them control the story." The word 'story' made Jenna's skin crawl. Her life had just blown up, and her first professional duty was to write, produce, and package the aftermath for everyone to see. The algorithm doesn't care about heartbreak, she knew, only about engagement, and the most engaging story in the world right now was her own spectacular downfall.

She sat at her vanity. The ring light she hadn't touched in days stared back at her like a mean, unblinking eye. This was her battlefield. She had built a career on aspiring to be perfect, so she knew, with a grim certainty, that her next product launch would have to be her own pain. She opened a document on her laptop. The cursor blinked on a blank page. My Statement.

The process was a cold, calculated exercise in violating her own privacy. She wrote and rewrote sentences. Her inner influencer battled with her raw, wounded self. "Connor's actions were a deep betrayal" became "I'm learning to navigate the pain that comes from a deep betrayal." The first was blaming, angry-bad for the brand. The second was vulnerable, focused on her growth-good for the brand. She hated it. She hated every calculated, therapeutic-sounding word. She spoke of her journey, of needing to find her own inner 'glow' again. She used her own marketing language to describe her trauma. She wrote a subtle but clear nod to the situation with Valora. "For anyone who has ever felt like history was repeating itself in the most painful way, please know you are not alone." Every word was calculated for controlled vulnerability, designed to elicit sympathy while projecting an image of strength and grace. The words felt both deeply authentic and like the most calculated lie she had ever told.

When it was time to film, she carefully set the stage. A soft, cozy sweater. A mug of chamomile tea held in her hands. The lighting was warm, intimate, designed to make her look fragile but not broken. She did her makeup with a light hand, just enough to hide the dark circles under her eyes but not so much that it looked like she wasn't suffering. It was the performance of a lifetime. The first few tries were useless; her anger made her voice sharp, her pain too raw. She had to pause, breathe, and find the perfect, easy-to-digest version of her heartbreak. On the seventh try, she found it. Her voice trembled at the right moments. A single, perfect tear rolled down her cheek on cue. She finished, hit stop, and a sour heat of self-loathing rose in her throat.

She uploaded the video to BeamCast and Lens, then immediately silenced her phone. She couldn't watch the reaction in real-time. Later that evening, she forced herself to look. The response was overwhelming. A huge wave of support poured in from her Glow-Getters. "So strong, queen!" "We love you, Jenna!" "Thank you for being so real!" The view count was enormous. Her subscriber numbers, after a first dip, were climbing. Valora had even liked the post. She felt hollow, a fraud who had sold her soul for pity-clicks.

Later that night, a clip started circulating on Current. It was from Connor's disastrous apology video. She couldn't bring herself to watch the whole thing, but the clips were enough. She saw him, in a cold, unfamiliar loft-Roxxi's, without a doubt. He looked defensive, self-pitying. He talked about the "immense pressure" of being a public figure. He was sorry he got caught. His words were a tangle of excuses, empty of remorse.

Seeing him like that, so clearly manipulative and without any real regret, brought her no satisfaction. There was no triumphant glee. There was only a deep, weary sadness. The man she had rearranged her life for, the man she had betrayed her own principles for was just a coward with a good jawline.

The love she thought she'd had... it was an illusion. It had never been real at all. And that, she thought, looking at the soaring engagement numbers on her own video, was the coldest truth of all.

***

The weeks that followed were a confusing mix of creating content and digging through her own emotions. Jenna threw herself into her work with a grim focus. Her apartment changed from a crime scene back into a production studio. Her "healing journey" became the main theme of her brand. She filmed BeamCast videos with titles like "Learning to Love Yourself After Betrayal" and "My Post-Breakup Glow Up Routine (The Inside & Out Edition)."

Some days, it felt real, even healing. Talking about her feelings, sharing tips on self-care, and reading the supportive comments from her Glow-Getters who had been through similar things-it felt like a real connection. It was like group therapy where she just happened to be the one with the ring light. She was taking her pain and turning it into something useful, something that might actually help people. It was the best possible version of her influencer self.

Other days, it felt like a sick performance. She'd sit at her makeup table, tears welling up, and her first thought would be "This is great lighting for a vulnerable picture." She found herself scripting her own pain, carefully planning her grief to be as relatable as possible. The line between showing her emotions and using them became terrifyingly thin. Was she healing, or was she just producing a new and exciting season of her life for her audience? The cynical thought chewed at her, making her feel like a fraud.

The backlash, when it came, was fast and harsh. The same gossip sites that had happily reported on her breakup now turned on her recovery. Headlines like "JayGlows Cashes In on Heartbreak" and "Was Her Career Just a #CoupleGoals Clout Grab?" appeared on Super-gossip forums. Trolls flooded her comment sections. They accused her of building her entire career on being a "hero's girlfriend" and now having nothing important to offer. "What are you even an expert on besides dating a D-list hero?" one comment read. Another said, "She was fine with it when he cheated on Valora, now she's crying victim. Hypocrite." Each comment was a fresh stab, twisting the knife of her own guilt. The criticism hurt, because it echoed her deepest fears about herself. Had she been nothing more than an accessory?

But after a particularly mean article sent her into a downward spiral for a whole afternoon, something inside her changed. The pain turned into a cold, hard resolve. She had to prove it to herself.

She started to change her methods. The soft lighting and cozy sweaters were sometimes replaced with a rawer, less perfect look. She did a stream with no makeup at all, her face pale and tired, and just talked. She offered no five-step plan to happiness; she just talked about how hard it was, how some days she didn't want to get out of bed, how the pressure to be a perfect, healed "survivor" online was suffocating. She did a video essay, carefully researched, on the subtle signs of a toxic relationship. She used her own experiences-the gaslighting, the belittling comments, the weaponized comparisons-as examples, all without ever saying Connor's name. The subject was "a past relationship," a universal experience.

The content was less about showing a perfect life and more about relating to others. Her view counts on these videos were smaller than the huge, viral numbers she got from the initial breakup drama or the #Conna content. They were quieter.

But the engagement was different. The comments section, which had been a dangerous place, transformed. It was filled with long, thoughtful paragraphs from followers sharing their own stories. They thanked her for her honesty, for making them feel seen. "This is the first time I've heard someone describe what I went through so perfectly." "Thank you for showing the hard part too." "This video helped me realize I need to leave."

She was connecting with her audience in a way she never had before, a way that had nothing to do with a famous boyfriend or a sponsored product. She was finding her real voice, and it was stronger and more meaningful than she had ever imagined.

Months passed. The digital seasons changed. The storm around her name calmed down to a steady, but manageable, rain. Her channel found its new rhythm. It was a steady, quiet hum of real connection that was more fulfilling than the frantic buzz of viral fame had ever been. She was in a better place, a place that felt solid, built on her own terms.

She was filming a casual Q&A session, answering questions from her Glow-Getters, when one popped up in the live chat that made her pause. "Do you still follow Connor on Lens?"

On camera, she handled it with practiced grace. A small, neutral smile. "You know, my social media is really focused on my own journey and the amazing creators I'm collaborating with now. I'm all about looking forward." It was a perfect, polite non-answer. But after she ended the stream, the question stayed with her, like an untied shoelace, a door left slightly open. Did she? She honestly couldn't remember if she had unfollowed him in the first, furious clean-out.

Later that night, curled up on her couch, the apartment silent and peaceful, she gave in to the pull of morbid curiosity. She opened Lens, her thumb hovering over the search bar. It felt like a small act of self-harm, like deliberately pressing on a bruise to see if it still hurt. She typed in his handle, @KineticFlow.

His profile was… sad. That was the only word for it. The confident, charming public figure was gone. He was replaced by a desperate-looking try-hard. There were a few half-hearted posts about his "comeback," full of empty phrases about "learning and growing." There were aggressive workout videos with Roxxi. Their chemistry felt forced and competitive. The comment sections were still a wasteland of angry remarks and mocking memes. He looked lost, a man performing a version of himself that no one, perhaps not even he, was buying anymore.

She felt a pang of distant, clinical pity. It was like looking at a stranger who vaguely looked like someone she used to know. This was neither the man she had loved, nor the monster who had betrayed her. He was just a guy who had made a series of selfish choices and was now living with the unremarkable, messy results. The ghost of their shared past, which had haunted her for so long, seemed to finally disappear in the pale glow of her phone screen.

With a deep breath, she tapped the blue "Following" button on his profile. It changed to a white "Follow" button. A simple, quiet click. A weight lifted from her shoulders, a loosening in her chest she hadn't realized was there. The click was an act of quiet, final indifference. It was for her.

The notification on her screen disappeared. A deep sense of peace settled over her. It was a feeling of closure so complete it was almost startling. She had taken the final step in taking back her own digital and emotional space. She powered off her phone. The room was plunged into a comfortable, natural darkness, free from the judgment of screens.

She looked around her apartment. It was her home now.

A small, genuine smile touched her lips, one meant for no camera, no audience. The "glow up" she had spent years marketing was never about makeup or lighting. It was this.

This quiet, hard-won feeling of being whole, on her own terms, in the comfortable dark. She was finally, truly, ready for her next chapter.

***