The Ides Of March 2

"Et tu, Brute?"

-William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar

Hi. I'm Savannah Rae. If you're here because you follow me, you probably think you know me already. Maybe you've watched my GRWMs or saved my apartment tour or liked that one video of me crying in a bathroom stall that ended up on every reaction channel on the internet. Maybe you've called me brave, messy, or both.

But before the followers, before the sponsorships and filters and comments that read like love letters from strangers, I was just a girl with a cracked phone screen and a list of things I wasn't supposed to feel.

I grew up learning how to make myself palatable. Keep it pretty. Keep it light. Don't be too loud. Don't be too soft. Smile like you mean it, even when the world is falling apart behind your eyes. And if someone hurts you, you don't break. You brand. You turn it into content. Caption the pain. Light it just right. Add music.

So that's what I did.

I built an empire out of aesthetics and survival. Lifestyle, fashion, travel, skincare. If it fit in a sixty-second frame or made someone say "goals," I made it mine. I paid off my loans before twenty-three. I signed with brands most girls dream of. People recognized me at airports, at brunch, in the frozen food aisle. My face was familiar, even when my heart wasn't.

But here's the truth I never posted: being seen is not the same as being known. Not really. The likes filled the silence, but not the ache. I gave the world a curated version of myself, and it clapped. Loudly. But when the ring light turned off and the lashes came off, I'd sit alone in a perfectly styled room wondering why none of it felt like enough.

I wasn't looking for anything when it happened. Not love. Not redemption. Not some life-altering night in a Midwestern club. I was just doing what I always do, observing. Documenting. Trying to make sense of the world in pixels and paragraphs. But that night, I saw something real. Something I couldn't scroll past.

For the first time, I didn't just film it.

I felt it.

I landed just past noon and already wanted to crawl into the hotel bed and forget the whole damn city existed. Day four of my Midwest tour, and my brain felt like it had been microwaved. I still had eyeliner smudged behind one ear from last night's shoot in Chicago, and my body was one mild inconvenience away from mutiny. But this was the job. Content doesn't sleep. Neither do algorithms. So I peeled myself off the too-stiff mattress and stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Hoodie? Check. Thrifted jeans? Check. Glasses slipping down my nose like they were trying to escape? Also check.

This wasn't for the camera. Not tonight. No trending audio. No fifteen-second transitions. Just me in the real world, scouting nightlife for my new series, Midnight Heartland. The concept was simple. Hidden gems, off-grid fashion, vibes over VIP. But the execution? Exhausting. Every club blurred together lately. Neon, overpriced cocktails, someone named Chad trying to sell me bottle service like I wouldn't torch his entire marketing strategy on TikTok if provoked.

Still, I had a checklist. Energy. Lighting. Crowd dress code. Would the space photograph well? Could a girl film a transition without stepping in gum or getting groped? Was there potential for that one perfect, unplanned, thirty-second reel that made people think God, I need to be there? That was the magic. Manufactured spontaneity. It was harder than it looked.

I tossed on my denim jacket and stepped into the hallway, trying not to make eye contact with myself in the mirror by the elevator. I looked tired. Not in a cute, candlelit coffee filter kind of way. Just real tired. My skin was dull, my lips were chapped, and my hair was in a bun that looked like it gave up halfway through getting ready. I could already hear the comments if I filmed anything like this: Savannah, you okay? You look tired. That was code for: Put the lashes back on, babe.

Outside, the wind was sharp enough to make my nose run before I reached the rideshare. I didn't even ask the driver to drop me at the front. Let the world see me walk in like a background extra in my own story. I liked it that way tonight. The influencer switch was off. This was reconnaissance, research, whatever helped me justify standing in a loud room at 9:45 p.m. when all I really wanted was warm noodles and an old sitcom.

The club was tucked between a steakhouse and some bar with one of those chalkboard signs that said, "Trust me, you need a drink." I wasn't so sure I did. The line was short, the bass was thumping, and the lighting outside was soft amber, giving it decent ambiance. I paid cover, stepped inside, and immediately clocked the interior: low ceilings, dim booths, sharp uplighting, decent LED rotation on the dance floor. Not the worst I'd seen.

No one noticed me. Not a single person looked twice. And I loved it. No flashes. No whispers. No drunk girl stumbling over to ask if I was "that girl from Insta who danced in a parking garage." I was a nobody here. Just a girl in glasses leaning against the bar, sipping soda from a straw and pretending she wasn't quietly cataloging everything from lighting angles to shoe choices.

I scanned the room, letting the noise wash over me like static. Couples danced. Groups hovered in corners. Phones lit up faces every few seconds. Somewhere behind my ribs, a familiar ache curled in. I hadn't even posted anything yet, and still I felt worn out by the idea of being perceived. Not just by strangers. By anyone. Especially the kind of people who said they loved you, then measured that love in how well you could serve their ego.

And yet, here I was. Watching, documenting, pretending I wasn't emotionally checked out of my own genre. Maybe I'd find a reason to care again. Maybe not. Either way, I was already inside. I'd give it twenty minutes before deciding if this place was worth shooting. Maybe something unexpected would happen. It usually did.

I found a booth near the back, just far enough from the speakers to avoid permanent hearing loss. It had a clean sightline to the dance floor and decent separation from the bar crowd. Perfect for staying invisible. I ordered a soda with lime, no alcohol. The bartender didn't blink, which I appreciated. Some nights you want a buzz. Other nights, you just want to be clear.

Once again I scanned the room. Trained habit. Who's here? What are they wearing? What's the vibe? There were a few try-hards in sequin dresses and platform heels, more than a couple of men who looked like they were hoping to catch a drunk mistake, and a handful of people actually enjoying themselves. But then, my eyes caught on a table of couples near the center of the room. Nothing flashy about them. Just good chemistry. Laughter, small touches, warm familiarity. And that's when I saw him.

He wasn't the loud one. He wasn't trying to dominate the table. He was just present, focused entirely on the woman next to him. She had on a blue dress that made her look elegant without screaming for attention. His eyes never left her. Not in a creepy, possessive way. In a way that said, you are the center of my galaxy. I'd seen men fake that look for cameras, for clout, for followers. But this wasn't performative. This was real. Soft. Devoted.

He leaned in as she spoke. Listened like every word meant something. Every now and then, he'd rest his hand on her shoulder or brush her wrist with his fingers, almost absentmindedly. Intimate, but casual. Like someone who'd touched her that way a thousand times and still hadn't gotten over how lucky he was. And maybe that was what hit me the hardest. He looked at her like he couldn't believe she still picked him.

I stared longer than I should have. Couldn't help it. Something about him, about the way he anchored himself to her presence, reached somewhere deep and unguarded in me. I didn't even know his name, but watching him look at her felt like hearing a love song I'd never learned the words to. My chest tightened. Not out of jealousy exactly. More like recognition or longing or both.

I thought I had that look once with someone until I realized he was saying the same lines to someone else, just off-camera. That memory never really left me.

I wanted that. That look. That safety. That certainty. The kind of quiet love you don't need to advertise because it already fills the room without trying. I'd built a whole career off curated connection, but watching him made me realize how hollow that sometimes felt. I wanted someone who saw me that way. Not the version of me with the lashes on and the ring light fired up. Me. Hoodie, glasses, ramen breath and all.

My phone buzzed with a reminder to check in on engagement stats. I didn't reach for it. I didn't take a picture. Didn't capture a moment. Not this time. This wasn't for the grid. It wasn't for the brand. It wasn't for anyone else.

It was just me, a plastic cup of flat soda, and a man I didn't know looking at his wife like she was something holy.

The lime in my drink had collapsed.

So had I.

Then the front door opened.

I noticed the shift in the room before I saw him. The collective ripple of attention, the tilt of heads, the tightening of postures that happens when someone magnetic walks in. And sure enough, there he was. Marc LaValliere. NFL tight end. Local hero. All swagger and spotlight, like charisma dressed in cologne. The women at the table I'd been watching straightened instantly. Lipstick reapplied. Hair tossed. It was almost textbook.

I didn't need to Google him. I'd dated a wide receiver from the Rams once, back when I still thought clout could be mistaken for character. The sex had been great in that forgettable, surface-level way. Like empty calories after a workout. He was beautiful and boring and always reaching for his phone when I started talking about anything real. I knew Marc's type the second he smiled, confident and practiced, about as emotionally nutritious as a shot of whipped cream.

Still, I watched. And this time, I recorded.

Not the whole room, just a corner of it. Just that one table. Just him. Jim, I heard someone call him. And Linda. They said her name like she was the headliner. I kept my phone low, resting against my thigh, barely tilted. Just enough to capture Marc approaching, his practiced walk and the way all eyes at the table locked onto him like he had just stepped out of a commercial in tight jeans and designer confidence.

Then he reached for Linda.

She hesitated. For half a second, her hand gripped the edge of the table. I saw it. So did Jim. She had been holding his hand just moments ago, smiling at him like he was her whole world. And now she was looking at Marc like he might be a new planet worth visiting. I stopped breathing. My phone didn't move.

Linda let go. Of the table. Of Jim. Of everything that mattered. She turned and placed her hand in Marc's. He led her to the dance floor like she was a prize he had already won. And Jim...God. The man folded in on himself without moving a muscle. His shoulders didn't slump. His expression didn't twist. But something in him just cracked.

I knew that feeling. I'd lived that exact moment. When someone you love suddenly, shockingly chooses someone else and you have no idea how long ago the choice was actually made. My soda sat untouched, the lime slice wilting. I couldn't take my eyes off Jim. His gaze tracked Linda the way a compass points north, even as she spun farther and farther away from him.

"Don't do this," I whispered, my voice barely audible even to myself. But no one heard me. Not Marc. Not Linda. Not Jim. He was watching his wife dance with another man, and no one else seemed to understand that the room had just become a crime scene.

I told myself I just needed a breather. Five minutes. Some water. Maybe splash my face and reset the urge to either cry or throw something. The restroom was tucked past the coat check, dimly lit and mercifully quiet. I slid into the last stall, locked the door, and sat down even though I didn't need to. My hands were shaking. Not from nerves or caffeine, but from something uglier. Something that felt like rage with nowhere to go.

I wasn't supposed to care this much. I didn't know him. Jim. I'd only just learned his name, and here I was hiding in a bathroom like I was the one being cheated on. But the image of his face when Linda walked away with Marc, that was burned into the back of my eyes. That kind of look doesn't come from losing a date. It comes from losing your person.

The door creaked open. Voices filtered in, casual at first. Heels clicked across tile. A zipper tugged. Then laughter, too sharp for the setting. I froze. Peered through the crack in the stall. It was Linda. Her dress still perfect. Her lipstick freshly reapplied. And Dee, I recognized her too. The kind with a rehearsed smile and eyes that calculated social currency like stock values.

I didn't mean to eavesdrop. I meant to leave. But then I heard Linda say it.

"He wants me to come home with him tonight."

Silence followed. Then a little giggle. Dee leaned closer, fixing her mascara like she was giving career advice.

"You should. Jim will get over it."

My stomach twisted. I pulled out my phone and hit record, barely thinking. My thumb trembled on the screen as I captured audio. I didn't know what I'd do with it. I just knew this shouldn't disappear into silence. Not like that.

Linda hesitated. "It's just... I didn't think it'd go this far, you know?"

Dee rolled her eyes. "Please. You looked amazing. He's a freaking celebrity. It's one night. Jim worships the ground you walk on. He'll bounce back."

I clenched my jaw until it hurt. The bathroom felt colder. Or maybe I just felt smaller. I didn't know Jim, but I knew that tone. That shrug-it-off logic. That casual rewriting of someone else's pain into a temporary inconvenience.

By the time they left, I was shaking. With anger. With guilt. Because I could have stopped her. Yelled. Stepped out and ruined it all. Instead, I sat there. Quiet. Shaking. And then I stood up, washed my face in silence, and walked out into a night I already knew I wouldn't forget.

Back on the edge of the dance floor, the music was still pulsing. The world hadn't shifted, but I had.

That's when I saw them slip out the back like it was a secret only they were in on. Linda's hand tucked into the crook of Marc's elbow, her head tilted just enough to look romantic. It wasn't. It was hollow and smug and wrong. I stood near a column, half in shadow, phone clenched in my hand like I could rewind reality if I held it tight enough. It didn't work. They left. She didn't look back.

Then I saw Jim. He was heading toward the bar, confusion written across his face. He stopped short when Dee intercepted him. I moved a little closer, kept to the edge of the crowd. I didn't want to record him, but I needed to document her. Dee. The apologist. The co-conspirator. The woman who smiled while her best friend walked out on the man who looked at her like she hung the stars.

I held my phone low and hit record just in time to catch Jim's voice. He sounded like someone trying not to fall apart in public.

"So if Asshole had picked you, as you wanted him to, you'd have done the same thing?"

I could barely breathe.

"I would," Dee answered, like it was something to be proud of.

"Does Dave know that?"

"No, and he doesn't need to, because I don't think it will ever happen."

"Maybe I should tell him."

Dee reached for him. Her voice softened.

"Jim, please don't. Don't think that way. I know you're hurting, but that won't help. Please come back to the table. Let us take your mind off it. You haven't danced with me all night, you know."

I wanted to scream. To drag her into the light and make her answer for every smug, manipulative word. But I didn't. I stood there, still, invisible. Just like when Linda walked away. Just like in the bathroom. My mouth stayed shut. My phone kept recording. And I hated myself for it.

Jim walked back to the table, and even from where I stood, I saw it. The shift. The moment he realized the whole group already knew. A circle of betrayal wrapped in polite smiles. He said something sharp and then pulled out cash. Tossed it on the table. Not angry. Just done. Then he turned and walked out. Alone.

I didn't film that part.

I couldn't.

I just stood there. Holding a forgotten drink and a useless phone and a weight in my chest that didn't belong to me, but hurt like it did.

I let it happen.

And I don't know why it hurts so much.

I couldn't remember the ride back to the hotel. The driver tried to make small talk, but I must have looked like I'd just crawled out of a wreck because he gave up and turned the music up instead. I was grateful. My brain couldn't process any more noise. The silence felt cleaner, like rinsing off poison in small doses. My fingers trembled as I swiped the keycard. I couldn't even blame the cold.

Once inside, I didn't turn on the lights. Just the lamp by the window. I peeled off my jacket, then my hoodie, collapsing onto the floor like gravity had finally won. The carpet scratched at my legs through my jeans. I sat cross-legged, glasses fogged, makeup streaked, and no ring light in sight. No edits tonight. No intro music. No branding overlay. Just me, my phone, and this thing in my chest I couldn't seem to put down.

I hit record. Front-facing camera. No filter.

My voice cracked before I got two words out.

"That man loved her."

"You could feel it. In how he looked at her. In how he held her hand. In how he watched her like she was magic."

"And she..."

My throat tightened. I pressed my palm to my chest like I could hold something broken together.

"She left him. Like he was nothing. Like he was a placeholder. Like love meant less than one night of attention from someone who didn't even see her."

"And the worst part? I let it happen."

I wiped my nose with the sleeve of my oversized shirt. The camera caught everything. The red eyes. The wreckage. The truth.

"Maybe I couldn't stop it. Maybe I didn't have the right."

"But I can make sure the world sees it."

My thumb hovered for just a second. Then I hit post.

I didn't check the comments. Didn't track the views. Didn't cross-link anything. I just set the phone down, crawled into bed fully clothed, and curled around the space I wish someone would have filled.

On the nightstand sat my drink from earlier. The soda was flat, the lime at the bottom now colorless, shriveled.

Just like the one back at the club.

Just like me.

And in the dark, I let myself cry for a stranger whose name I'd only just learned,

and for the part of me that knew exactly what it felt like to be chosen last, or not at all.

I woke to the sound of my phone vibrating like it was trying to escape the nightstand. Blurry-eyed, I reached for it. Notifications stacked like dominos. Mentions. Shares. Duets. Stitches. Edits layered with moody music and slow-motion recaps of a night that wasn't theirs, but had somehow become everyone's. My video had gone viral. The numbers didn't look real. Neither did the comments; angry, aching, feral.

"This broke me."

"Who leaves someone who looks at them like that?"

"Name her. We'll handle the rest."

I hadn't named anyone. I didn't need to. The internet had already gone digging. Threads on Reddit had picked apart location clues, club decor, outfit matches. Instagram comments under a private profile filled with hearts and then venom. People knew. Or thought they did. And they wanted blood. Or justice. Or both.

I stared at the screen, my heart thudding in my ears. I hadn't expected this. I'd filmed that video because I couldn't sleep. Because I needed to put the grief somewhere that wasn't behind my ribcage. I never thought it would be reposted by celebrities. I never thought it would end up on news sites under vague headlines like Influencer Calls Out Infidelity in Viral Video. I hadn't planned any of it. But maybe that's why it hit.