We need only four takes to record the video. Part of that is Shea—she’s just that talented. She coils up her muscles. She unleashes. She explodes.

This time it was the combination of Shea and the song selection. Maybe the effects we chose together—the sparse lighting, the dark tones. I’ll take a little credit for those contributions. But the song did most of the work for us—unexpected and mighty. I’ve never thought of rage as gorgeous before. But Shea and I showed that. We astounded people.

And I found a way for Shea to dance the way Shea needs to dance—the way a storm rolls in and splits open the sky. Shea could not have done that safely, had I not spent most of the night rigging up the living room system. Drilling holes and testing out different kinds of clasps and catches. And then I spent hours at the kitchen table editing out every silver link of chain, every glint of metal around her wrist. So me taking on a little bit of credit for this video feels warranted. Shea would not have created something so remarkable in her bedroom back in Tacoma. I know that. Deep down, she must know that too.

When my phone starts chiming, Shea’s eyes flicker to mine. We know we’ve done amazing work.

“Do you have my channel loaded on your phone now?” She doesn’t accuse me; she just asks.

“Yes.” I answer just as simply. And then I correct her. “Our channel.” The phone dings again. It feels incredible to think that right this minute, people are devouring this thing I created. My phone practically pulses in my hands. Reactions flood in from all over. I can’t get over it. I never could have imagined it. I feel generous. I ask her, “Do you want to read some of the comments together?”

“It’s not always the best thing, Nora.” Shea has the audacity to look worried. We just recorded the best video to ever launch from her channel and she can’t bring herself to admit that. “Especially if it’s something you believe really turned out amazing. You know I believe that too. It’s an awesome video. But sometimes it’s better to take some time and just enjoy that feeling of success on your own. Really just relish it. Because other people are just going to tear it down. Not everyone.” She rushes to correct herself. “But some people—that’s all they do. It’s pretty much why they watch.” She sighs. “Nora, I just want you to have the chance to enjoy this feeling of success. We created something really cool today.”

“Oh, did we?” Could she be any more condescending? “When was the last time one of your solo videos racked up so many views so quickly? I mean, I’ve been there for all of it and certainly boosted your signal, but I don’t recall anything like this. Maybe early on, but that was back when the platform itself was simpler. Think of all that we’re competing with now.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Well, then what did you mean, Shea? And who’s tearing you down anyway? Do you know how many hours I’ve spent trying to think of the perfect comment—something witty and memorable? That stood out among all the other lines of adoration. Just so that maybe once you would notice? It would have set off fireworks in my heart if you even hit like. I tried so hard. For what? So you could whine about a few critics.”

“I do feel lucky. I appreciate my followers, Nora.”

“Our followers, Shea.”

“Of course. Yes. I don’t mean to imply that you’re not ready for feedback. Maybe it’s just that I wasn’t. It hurt me; that’s all. I don’t want that for you. I don’t like to look at reactions right away. I try to go for a walk or out with my friends.”

“That’s really wholesome of you, Shea.” The phone vibrates again—three notifications in quick succession.

“But I’m excited too. This is a whole new world, after all. It’s our channel now. Maybe it’s time to handle it differently. I’d be honored if we could sit together and see some of the responses.”

“Really?” Not for the first time, I remind myself that Shea Davison is a stellar performer.

“Of course, really. I’m so sorry, Nora. I didn’t mean to discourage you. I just get anxious. It’s like post–stage fright. That’s my issue, though.”

“Will you be okay? We don’t need to make a big deal of it if it’s going to cause a panic attack or something. We’re not close enough for any kind of medical help—we’ve talked about that before.”

“I know. I’ll be fine. It helps to experience this as a team. I hadn’t expected that.”

Again, I watch her carefully. She seems earnest enough.

“Well, you’ve done group dances before. I’ve seen them.”

“I know, but it was still all me, you know? This feels like the two of us creating something together.” Shea Davison actually says that to me. She looks directly at me and speaks straight from her heart.

“Well, okay then. Let’s do it. We’ll sit right here.” I pat the spot next to me on the sofa. And that’s something else. She can walk over basically by herself and sit. It feels a ton more normal. Except for the clanking when the chain drags on the floor.

Shea hears it too. “Sorry.” I don’t comment. I don’t like to talk about the handcuffs. Every time they flash, they remind me that Shea would not have chosen to join me at the cabin. I had to go to extraordinary lengths to get her here. She didn’t have the kind of faith I did in our eventual partnership. But that’s okay, I remind myself. We’re here now.

“How do you usually read them?” I ask her. “First or most recent?”

“First,” Shea answers immediately. “It lets me follow along if people interact with each other.”

I hold the phone between us. It moves a little and I realize that my hand trembles.

“Are you nervous?” she asks kindly.

“I didn’t think so.”

“It could also be adrenaline. You’re all pumped up from the energy you’re generating.”

“Okay. I’m ready now.” I refresh the phone. The first comment seems fine enough. I look to Shea and she smiles and nods. I keep scrolling. Again, more about Shea. That’s to be expected, though. We don’t even introduce me by name. We can’t yet because of certain circumstances.

There’s a lot of talk about the music choice, and I feel at least partially responsible for that stroke of brilliance. Tons of comments compare our video favorably to the Shea Davison standards of the olden days.

So I’m still feeling pretty good—lots of positivity. Shea’s followers get it—they really seem to understand what we’re aiming for. They’re still just Shea followers. It’s still all Shea. It makes me realize we should have introduced me more deliberately. Even if I chose a stage name or something. But okay. Now I know. That has to take priority for the next video.

I hear Shea suck in her breath before I read the first really mean comment in its entirety. I make myself reread it so that I know exactly how they worded it. I tell myself that’s just one person. One voice in a chorus of praise really. But then someone else responds to the first commenter. And then someone else. They start riffing on “the other girl.” Everyone seems to have a joke at my expense.

Shea sets her hand on my arm, ever so gently. “Nora, I’m so sorry. Maybe we should stop for now. Especially when a video trends, it starts a frenzy. Folks forget we’re real people. They’re just commenting quickly. They’re not thinking.” She just yammers on and on, as if she’s not secretly pleased to keep reigning as queen ballerina of TikTok.

“Could you please just shut your perfect, famous mouth?” Her lips snap closed, and at least that vaguely satisfies me. “I just want to be alone now, please.”

“You should really turn off the phone, even just for tonight. We’ll do something else. We’ll step back, get to know each other more.”

“Please just go.”

“Okay, I get it. Nora, I do understand. I’m here if you need me.”

I laugh—a harsh, jagged sound that scrapes through the cabin. “Well, Shea, where else would you be?”

She takes a few steps toward the back bedroom, and at first, I don’t notice the issue. My head faces down, soaking in the online observations of people who apparently despise me. I hear the metal clank as Shea stops moving. It’s wicked to smirk at her while I storm past her and head to the back bedroom myself. But it helps. I slam the door shut behind me and picture Shea standing forlornly in the middle of the front room, unable to reach the bedroom because she’s firmly tethered to the wall.

In the privacy of the little room, I keep reading. Each line slices and stings. They think of me as Shea’s clumsy shadow—the other girl. I’m the worst feature of a Shea Davison video, a weird exception that ruins something otherwise extraordinary. And I can’t just dismiss them because they also love the same pieces I love—the unusual song choice, the contrast between the music’s barely reined chaos and our deliberate choreography. They notice all those aspects; they just attribute them fully to Shea. Me? I don’t count for anything. I just take up space.

Line by line, I start responding before thinking it through. At first, I argue in my head, the way you do when someone’s attacking you and you know their accusations are irrational and unfair. You think through your arguments. And then you land on an excellent point, one you feel compelled to share.

I keep it general at first, the way Shea might. Although I’ve never seen her post a response. Sometimes Shea hits the like button and in rare moments answers with a red heart emoji.

I start by thanking people who posted kind comments. I try to establish that we create as partners now. So I write Thanks! We worked really hard on that! Or Thank you for noticing—we love that part of the song too. I try to build bridges with the folks who notice the Washington connection. Neither of us can claim Seattle roots but we both love Washington! That keeps it vague enough. I’m smart about it. I don’t release any details about myself.

My comments sound like the way Shea talks. Any true follower would recognize that. I emulate her relentless cheerfulness. When I think a response is ready to post, I add one more kind word, one more exclamation point. I stay on-brand.

I don’t intend to give airtime to cruel comments. But then people start responding to my responses. In real time. An actual conversation. Is this the royal we, Shea? Someone else asks What’s going on with all the plurals? And then suddenly it feels like someone must be staring straight into the cabin windows. Because someone writes Hold up, Sheatown … I bet we have Other Girl on the line now.

Other Girl, give us a name. Where’d you learn to dance like a wounded owl? Is this some kind of charity campaign where Shea makes Other Girl’s Dream come true? I can’t keep up. I freeze. And then Devo comments Who said Other Girl is keeping Shea hostage? Best explanation for this trainwreck.

Then I have to dive in: LOL You’re all hilarious. Way to haze the newbie. I recognize most of your handles. Longtime follower turned collaborator here. Shea and I are so excited for the next run of videos. More on the way! I hit send, feeling confident. I’m rising above, but standing up for myself, reminding folks that Shea and I are real people just like them.

They circle like turkey vultures. They dive and peck. Is this Shea’s mom? Is this like a bachelorette party thing? Put down Shea’s phone, Shea’s mom.

IKR? Who says LOL?

I think it stands for Listen, Othergirl Lies.

Yas! Devo. Love that.

I hear whistling in my ears. My eyes sting at the corners. I scroll down, hoping for any tiny positive comment. Toward me and not Shea—someone who might understand a sliver of how hard I’ve worked. Maybe I haven’t had the private lessons or the hours of rehearsal time. I’ve made do. Nobody gives me free hours at a studio. I don’t travel through the world with an entourage.

I read every comment, even the vile ones, hoping someone has seen me. And that’s when I read it. The rest of the words fall off the page. Message received. We’re coming for you. And they call her Alice.

The whistling in my ears ramps up to sirens. I sat out there at the kitchen table. She watched me. Zooming and clicking and making the tiniest of adjustments. I erased any trace of the cut on Shea’s arm or the restraints, which we sadly need for her own safety. The whole time she watched me work, Shea hoped for my failure. Alice in Chains. She chose the music for the message—not the lyrics but the band name.

I drop the phone on the bed and stand up, head to the door, and then stop. The feelings streaming through me scare me. I want to yank Shea to the floor. I want to hit her and hear the bones in her face crunch.

A thick pottery mug sits on the bedside table. The replacement for the one she broke. There’s still amber liquid puddled at the bottom. I’ve taken care of Shea in every way possible. I gave her space and time and rest and care. 6,548 people have already shared this morning’s video. And that number is climbing. 22,000 likes. I was building brilliance while Shea was encrypting messages.

The mug has a formidable heft to it. I can’t explain why but I want to slam it over and over against my own eye socket. I want something to hurt in a way I can expect. No more surprises. I hold the mug as far from my face as possible and then whip it toward my right cheek. But I balk. I jerk my hand away at the last second. I hurl it toward the window. It’s heavy in my hand and it feels like such a relief to let go. Everything shatters at once—the mug, the window. Glass and ceramic shards rain down on the sill. A jagged hole in the window lets in the cold wind.

Let them come. They’ll still need to find us. And Shea won’t have the opportunity to disappoint me again.