My wrist hurts in an oddly satisfying way. It’s one part I didn’t plan for—the need to keep Shea and me linked together. I didn’t count on how exhausting all this would be—the constant caretaking required by someone as overindulged as Shea. The ache of my wrist reminds me. Even when we sit still on the couch, the metal scrapes my wrist continuously. I’m sure it’s worse for her. She has that freak injury, which, if I’m truthful, was due to carelessness on my part. I panicked so much in those first few hours. But Shea and I have settled into a daily rhythm. We understand each other.

We are more alike than I ever imagined. I have bruises blooming beneath the stainless-steel handcuff. When all this is over, I wonder if I can convince Shea to get matching tattoos. We can find a dainty and intricate design—something we decide on together. By then collaboration will feel reflexive. Right now, Shea and I are still learning.

Sometimes I have these moments when we’re sitting beside each other—at the table, on the sofa. I remember dreaming up this whole adventure—how unlikely it all seemed. How impossible. Sitting here, I feel so pleased with myself. I want Shea to ask me: How did she get here? How did I manage to transport her from my dream to the wood-paneled living room?

When I would catch myself feeling lonely, it helped to imagine who I could invite over to the ranch. If I could spend time with anyone, any guest in the world, who would it be? Who would make each day more bearable? It became a game I’d play in the lonely empty days after Helen headed back to California.

Sonny had his voices on the radio. And I had influencers and the tiny window into their lives—my phone. I could step away through that window. I knew by the way he looked at me, Sonny saw me as a nuisance. A reminder.

Silences stretched for days. We dwindled from How was your day? to Pass the salt, please and from there it was easy to stop bothering.

Working through chores, trying to homeschool, I’d pretend to have someone chatting along with me. Mostly I’d talk to them just in my head. If Sonny heard me washing up at the kitchen sink and babbling to no one at all, he’d holler that I was acting crazy. So I’d whisper. I would just narrate a little, the way you tell your story to yourself as you go ahead and live it.

Shea’s channel was different from other TikToks on dance or crafts or financial literacy. I know because I sifted through all of them. Videos played beside me all the time. Mostly those were people who fascinated me, with lives so different. More glamorous. Far-off and amazing.

At first, I believed the same about Shea. She speaks so confidently. And it takes authority to decide your voice is worth being heard. To press record and then act on the belief that your life warrants sharing. I recognized that power in Shea’s videos.

But I saw something else too.

Shea never had to shout over the bustle of a busy household. She never got interrupted or surprised. No brother or sister or parent poked their head into her bedroom to ask some stupid question or call her down for dinner. Behind whichever song she’d selected to dance to, Shea’s house had a soundtrack of quiet.

I doubt her other followers realized. But I noticed the hushed way she sometimes spoke to us: Someone lived in Shea’s house who she didn’t want to disturb. I remember how the idea of it slammed into me. You don’t see the quiet houses on Netflix. On TV, the parents joke with their kids. They tease or lecture. Or yell.

Once I understood how alike we were, I saw Shea’s loneliness lurking under every video. I started writing down every mention Shea made of her mom, her dad, her house. If I could figure out the Davisons, maybe I could understand the Monahans. I cataloged the meals Shea made for herself—cereal with milk usually, not enough to fuel a dancer’s level of activity. I saw that she only filmed in her room. If she included friends, she made those videos at school, at the coffee shop, even at the grocery store. That was something else: Shea did her own grocery shopping. She bought her own school supplies.

Oh, it all got better. I watched that storyline play out along with the rest of Shea’s other followers. Her mom gradually made more appearances in her videos, waving as she floated by the open door of Shea’s bedroom. I heard her voice more and more and understood that sometimes she even held the camera.

Shea interviewed her mom about the divorce and even her depression. While they came off as more heavy-handed than I would expect from an influencer of Shea’s caliber, I appreciated the effort. Shea and Kallie nobly reminded her followers that divorce was an issue between adults, and parents were responsible for their own emotional well-being. They shared so openly that sometimes I found their happiness obnoxious. Especially on days when I needed to wear headphones to cancel out the sound of Sonny ranting.

It’s hard to admit my bitterness. I wanted to root for Shea. I saw the way she tentatively watched her mom fuss over her hair before a date with Bryan. As if neither of them fully trusted life to pivot toward joy so completely.

I wanted to root for them, but their happiness also made me feel lonely. And then came the video of Shea and Delancey. Along with all other followers, I watched them both squeal over the miracle of their separately single parents finding each other on a dating app. Shea’s house was never as quiet after that.

I’m not going to claim that Shea Davison needs to suffer for her art; she’s not Van Gogh. I understand the limits of Shea’s cultural relevance. But the forced march of cheer through her mom’s second marriage feels empty and contrived. Shea is better than that.

I can’t have been the only follower who missed her vulnerability. That’s why I stepped in to help. Shea needed a return to quiet. She needed space—someone to run interference between her and her intrusive friends and demanding family. I can’t have been the only follower who missed her old channel, but I was the one who risked everything to restore it. She will see that. Eventually.

It’s already so much better than I expected—every single aspect of this plan that once seemed so farfetched now seems natural. Certain things still stress me out: every time Helen texts, for one. Worry tends to wash over me while I fix our meals. Shea often picks at her food, and with our supplies dwindling, we don’t have it to waste.

But she has started to appreciate my efforts. She thanks me for the food; she marvels at the cabin’s wooded views. She complains about missing home less and less.

People have exploited Shea for years. To acknowledge that calls almost every relationship she has into question. I’d like to think she’s starting to understand how much I’m willing to sacrifice to help.

I’m not letting the online comments get to me. Most people resist change. Shea’s followers don’t understand the ways we’re advancing the channel. We’re entering a new phase—a more artistic one. Lots of folks willfully misunderstand art. In the past, Shea hasn’t shared the spotlight well. So we’re dealing with the ghost of that greed now.

I notice it’s a few particular commenters. A couple seem to take issue with Shea’s very existence. I just serve as collateral damage. They watch her videos for the sake of hating her videos. It’s sport to tear her down. Then there are concern trolls—flooding the stream with suggestions that Shea is somehow in danger or unwell. Devo, in particular, seems in tune with the details of Shea’s circumstances. Devo gives off hometown vibes.

I want to ask Shea how she deals with it—the exposure, the onslaught of opinions every time she posts. I practiced dance. I studied set-building by watching videos. No one trains you for vicious feedback. But I can’t trust her enough to give away how much those comments hurt me.

“How did you find me?” I don’t hear her when she first asks. I am that accustomed to having conversations with Shea in my head. And we’ve sat in quiet for a good while. She asks again, “Nora? May I please ask you a question? How did you find me?” Her voice bounces around the empty cabin.

It’s a good part of our story. I’m ready to share it with her. I whirl around excitedly, and she winces. I’ve yanked our arms. But Shea shakes it off and nods for me to continue. “Okay. Yeah. Sorry.” Suddenly, I feel shy and nervous. But still, I can’t stop myself from smiling when I tell her: “Ten Things I Hate About You.”

“What?” Shea looks flabbergasted.

“I’ve seen it at least fifty times.” Mostly with Helen, piled on the couch in the times before our little planet tilted. My sister loved that movie—its Shakespearean roots, its Heath Ledger dreaminess, the poem at the end. “Have you seen it?”

“I know about it.”

“It’s a classic.”

“It’s a rom-com. From the nineties.”

“It’s an adaptation of The Taming of the Shrew. That’s a play by Shakespeare.”

“About the taming of a woman?”

I don’t like Shea’s tone. “Well, the play is about marriage. Back then, those alliances focused more on economics. It’s definitely dated, but has a strong female lead—”

“Who gets tamed?”

When I practiced this conversation in my head, it never went so sideways. This was supposed to be a bonding moment for us, but Shea has fixated on this one word. “The Shakespeare isn’t really the point. I’m telling you about my favorite movie. I used to watch it with Helen. We’d watch it over and over. We could both recite the poem at the end from memory. I can’t believe you haven’t seen it.” I get excited again—anticipating the big reveal, the way she’ll see how connected we already are. “It’s set at your—”

“At my high school.”

Shea finishes my sentence for me, and I don’t like that. That ruins the moment. And reveals poor manners. “Well, that’s such a big deal. I can’t imagine that the movie isn’t required viewing when you go there. Just think about that, Shea. I first saw that movie so long ago. Maybe I was seven or eight. Helen and I watched it over and over. She even almost applied to Sarah Lawrence because the girl in the movie went there for college. But anyway, all those scenes we rewatched and memorized. Performed for my mom even. They were set at Stadium High School. In Tacoma, Washington. Your high school.”

“The school jokes about it a lot.”

“It looks like a castle. You’re so lucky to go there.” I cringe a little, hearing my own wording. Because she’s not exactly attending classes right now.

She doesn’t point that out. That counts as progress, I think. Her voice still sounds flat when she tells me, “Yeah, I know. That’s cool and all. But inside, it still feels like high school.”

I have waited too long to share this with Shea. I just keep spilling out details, thinking she just needs to hear the right one to understand. “Helen and I always thought of Ten Things as a Seattle movie, you know? And then I watched all the way through the credits—did you know they put bloopers at the end? Anyway, it listed Stadium High School. That’s the magical castle high school.”

“Right. I get it.”

“And then in October of last year, you posted a dance in front of the building. I recognized the turrets. The following January, you filmed another video on the football field, the one made iconic by the ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You’ scene. The first video could have been a fluke, a landmark you passed by and viewed as an opportunity. But you seemed comfortable there. I thought you must live in Tacoma. Honestly, I was just so amazed you were from Washington state. Another connection between us. Then the second video confirmed it.

“Once I realized you went to Stadium, the rest was just relatively simple detective work. I found a discussion board all about the city. I posed as a parent moving to the area and wondering about the best schools. Those folks provided me with so much information about Tacoma school zoning.

“It became a sort of treasure hunt, looking for local landmarks—like the park with the lion statues—”

“Wright Park.”

“Right. Correct.” I laugh. “But you know, I found you so easily. As much as I really enjoyed some of those videos, you might want to consider the safety element. Me, I’d never hurt you.” I hold eye contact with Shea, all but daring her to glance down at her wrist, but she stares right back at me. “Because I’m here to help you, to advocate for you. But you know, there are dangerous people roaming around.”

Shea nods solemnly. She blinks a lot. It’s fascinating to watch her face fight to hold still. We’re sitting so closely, facing each other. The corner of her right eye twitches and a slight movement ripples across her lips. I know Shea’s face so well—I’ve spent hours watching it, after all. Now I get to see her right in front of me—all the expressions that flicker across her face. And right this moment, it looks like Shea wants to say something but stops herself.

“I know.” I pat her arm. “It’s really scary. But that’s another element for us to work on together.”

“Then you found us at the studio?” Her words come out slowly. I think Shea is still in a bit of shock, imagining what could have gone wrong if it had been someone other than me who tracked her down.

“I planned for this to go so differently.” Now that we’re talking, really understanding each other, it feels important to explain this to Shea. “You just needed to get to know me. I thought if we just met in person, then of course we would be friends.

“This is probably hard for you to hear, but back in Tacoma, you just weren’t living up to the person you promised to be. I’m just one of your followers, right? One of thousands. But I’ve been rooting for you since the beginning. I pretty much risked everything to help you, so I feel qualified to speak for all your followers—at least the ones who really care about you. We’ve spent years boosting you, liking you, sending positive comments. I know I never, ever minded. In your videos, you showed such a positive attitude, you always spoke so encouragingly. You broke down the steps for your dances. It was all about the ways we could uplift each other, right, Shea?”

She closes her eyes then. She nods. Deep down, Shea is an honest person. She knows what I’m about to tell her.

“Then I finally met you in person. You were just so cold and aloof. You seemed really closed off to new people. And your friends—honestly, Shea, the whole group behaved monstrously. They closed ranks, but not to protect you—I mean, it was just me, after all. It just seems as if they aimed to protect their ticket.”

“Their ticket?”

“To fame, I guess? The way they look at you as a launchpad—how Diana demands you list her as a featured dancer, how Pearl and Jolie make you link their own channels. Doesn’t the constant angling gross you out? Maybe that’s something we should confront them about—really take a stand? At some point, we should make a video specifically calling out that behavior. We can discuss that later. But I’ll make a note of it. Shea, we’re coming up with so many incredible ideas. We really need to get recording.” She blinks again. Her eyes shimmer, just the slightest bit, with tears.

I go on. “I just expected that you and me—we would have more time to get to know each other. That way, when we eventually came up here, to the cabin, right away you’d recognize it for the opportunity it is. I’m sorry that things got so out of hand that first night.”

“You mean the night you took me?” Shea speaks quietly, but her words have that hard edge to them. It’s her ingratitude that wears on me. I count out a few breaths, though, and try again. We need to work through these hard moments in order to be strong partners.

So I smooth the faded quilt that covers both our legs. I move very carefully so that I don’t disturb Shea or tug at her hurt arm. I speak to her in the relentless positive tone I learned from her. “One day, you and I will both look back on this time and think of it as a rescue, Shea. I truly believe that.”