CH.5

TESSA

I open I*******m first, and my world implodes all over again.

The video is everywhere. Reposted, shared, turned into memes, reaction videos and compilation clips.

#TessaFail is trending.

#FatGirlDown has over a million views.

Someone has auto-tuned my sobs and turned them into a remix.

But it's the comments that really destroy me:

"LMAOOOOO this is the funniest thing I've ever seen"

"Imagine being this delusional about your weight"

"The audacity of thinking Derek would actually want THAT"

"Natural selection at work"

"Someone should put her out of her misery"

"Fat bitch got what she deserved"

"This is why obesity should be illegal"

"I'm crying laughing at this whale"

"She really thought she was the main character"

"This is what happens when you don't know your place"

The comments keep coming in an endless scroll of cruelty that makes my broken ribs feel gentle in comparison.

People I've never met, will never meet, taking time out of their lives to kick me while I'm down. Taking pleasure in my pain like it's entertainment specifically created for their amusement.

I switch to TikTok and it's worse.

Someone has made a compilation video of my "best moments" set to circus music. Another person has created a "transformation challenge" where people film themselves eating until they look similar to me, then dramatically falling down.

The hashtag #TessaChallenge has 50 million views.

T*****r is a wasteland of cruelty:

"Tessa Whyte really said 'I'm going to steal my parents' money to fund my own humiliation' and honestly? Iconic!"

"The way she really thought she was going to get the hot guy. Delusion is a hell of a drug"

"Tessa Whyte is proof that money can't buy you self-awareness"

"That video of Tessa Whyte getting dragged is the serotonin boost I needed today"

"Imagine being so desperate for male attention that you become a literal ATM for someone who finds you disgusting"

But the worst part isn't the strangers. It's seeing people I know. Classmates, acquaintances, people I thought were friends sharing these posts, adding their own commentary to my destruction.

People I trusted. People I helped. People I thought cared about me, even a little bit, all participating in the destruction of what's left of my dignity.

My hands are shaking so violently I can barely hold the phone.

Each comment is a physical blow, each share another nail in the coffin of any hope I had that this might blow over, that people might forget, that I might be able to salvage some small piece of my old life.

"Turn it off," my mother whispers, reaching for the phone. "Baby, please turn it off."

But I can't. I keep scrolling, keep reading, keep letting the poison pour into my veins as though I'm addicted to my own destruction. Because this is what I need to see. This is what I need to understand.

This is the world I'm going to have to face when I leave this hospital room.

This is what they think of me. What they've always thought of me. The only difference is now they're saying it out loud, in public, for everyone to see.

I'm not a person to them. I'm a punchline. A cautionary tale. A source of entertainment that makes them feel better about their own lives by comparison.

The video has been viewed 15 million times. Fifteen million people have watched me get my heart ripped out and found it amusing enough to share with their friends.

"They don't even see me as human." The words are barely audible through my tears. "I'm just content to them. A joke that keeps giving."

"Then perhaps," my father says coldly, "you should have considered that before you gave them material to work with."

Even now, even seeing my complete destruction, he can't offer comfort. Only blame. Only the reminder that this is my fault, my failure, my shame to bear.

"Those people don't matter," my mother tries weakly, but her words lack conviction.

"They're everybody," I correct her, still scrolling through the endless stream of cruelty. "They're everyone I'll ever meet, everyone I'll ever try to work with, everyone I'll ever—"

I stop mid-sentence because I've found something that makes my blood turn to ice water in my veins.

A group chat. Screenshots of a group chat between Maya, Derek, and about twenty other people from our social circle. Someone leaked it, probably thinking it was funny enough to share with the world.

The phone slips from my numb fingers and clatters to the floor.

Maya never had to get her hands dirty. She orchestrated everything from the shadows, pulling strings and planting suggestions while keeping her own image spotless.

Even in their cruelest moments, they spoke of her with admiration. The mastermind who never left a single piece of evidence pointing back to herself.

She was too smart to put anything incriminating in writing. Too careful to be caught on camera saying anything cruel. She simply whispered the right words in the right ears, made the right introductions, and watched as others destroyed me for her entertainment.

"What is it?" my mother asks, but I can't speak. Can't breathe. Can't process the magnitude of what I've just discovered.

My father picks up the phone, reads the screenshots, and his face goes through a transformation that's terrifying to witness.

The disgust and tension disappear, replaced by something cold, deadly and absolutely murderous.

"She's untouchable," I whisper. "Maya never said a word against me. Never sent a cruel message. Never left any proof. She just orchestrated it all and let everyone else be the monsters while she stayed clean."

"This is what happens," my father says through gritted teeth, "when you associate with people beneath your station. When you trust the wrong people with family resources."

The door to my hospital room opens just then and my father's head of security stands in the doorway with his usually composed face strained.

"Mr. Whyte." His voice is tight with barely controlled rage. "We have a situation."

The beeping of my heart monitor accelerates as dread floods my system.

"What kind of situation?" my father demands.

He glances at me, then back at my father, working his jaw as though he's chewing on something bitter. "There's a crowd outside. Media, protesters, concerned citizens. They're demanding answers about Miss Tessa's condition and..." He pauses and his dark eyes flash with murder. "They're being led by Maya Castellano."

The name hits the room with explosive force.

My mother gasps. My father goes completely still in the dangerous way that means someone is about to be destroyed. And me? I feel something cold and sharp unfurling in my chest, something that tastes vengeful.

"Maya," I repeat the name like a curse. "She's here."

"Yes, ma'am," the towering man continues. "She started with just her and a few friends, but now there are news vans, social media influencers, people with signs. The hospital is considering calling in riot control."

My hands are shaking as I reach for my phone again, ignoring my mother's protests and my father's sharp intake of breath.

The screen lights up with new notifications, mentions, tags, comments, shares. But I ignore them all and go straight to the source.

Maya's I*******m live stream.

There she is, my former best friend, standing outside the hospital in a perfectly coordinated outfit that screams 'concerned friend in crisis.'

Her makeup is flawless except for the carefully placed tear tracks that catch the light just right.

Her hair is artfully disheveled, as though she's been running her hands through it in worry.

She's surrounded by a crowd of people holding signs that read "JUSTICE FOR TESSA" and "STOP RICH FAMILY BULLYING" and "MENTAL HEALTH MATTERS."

The comments are flying by so fast I can barely read them, but the sentiment is clear: Maya is a saint, and my family are monsters.

"I'm just trying to see my best friend," Maya is saying to the camera, her voice breaking with perfectly timed emotion. "Tessa and I have been sisters since we were children. We've shared everything. Our dreams, our fears, our deepest secrets. And now, when she needs me most, her family has banned me from seeing her."

The crowd around her murmurs with sympathetic outrage.

Someone shouts, "That's not right!"

Maya nods gratefully, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue that somehow doesn't smudge her mascara.

"I understand they're protective." Her voice is getting stronger, more passionate. "I understand they're hurting. But Tessa tried to... she almost..." Maya breaks down completely.

The crowd surges closer, offering comfort and support.

"She almost what?" someone calls out.

Maya looks directly into the camera with eyes that shimmer with unshed tears.

"She almost took her own life."