I woke up Monday morning with a migraine and a bad attitude. The kind you can’t fix with caffeine or good intentions.

My pillow felt heavier than usual, as if it absorbed every regret from the past forty-eight hours. I lay there staring at the ceiling, trying to pretend my body had stopped existing.

My body said no school today, but my mom’s house said otherwise. I could already hear her moving around in the kitchen—radio humming, kettle whistling, being productive. Meanwhile, I was lying there like a crime scene victim, staring at the ceiling and planning excuses.

Maybe food poisoning. Or trauma.

Yeah. Emotional trauma sounded valid.

I rolled over and pulled the blanket above my head, as if that could block out reality. My phone buzzed somewhere under the sheets, and I ignored it the first time. But the second buzz came with that familiar ding from Falcon Falls Tea Corner’s account.

My stomach dropped before I even unlocked it.

The video.

That video.

Someone had actually posted it. The whole café scene. Me storming in, yelling, roasting Kevin like it was a live reality-show meltdown.

And it was everywhere.

> “Girl’s got no chill ”

“She really said two minutes ”

“Someone check on Kevin he’s never recovering.”

I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Or maybe fake my own disappearance.

I pressed the screen to my chest, staring blankly at the wall. This was it. My social death certificate, timestamped and high-definition. I could already imagine the whispers at school, the pity looks, the laughter behind locker doors.

Then—

“Yara! Come here!”

Mom’s voice carried from downstairs, sharp and too cheerful for someone about to ruin my life.

I debated pretending to be dead. Didn’t work. She called again.

“Now!”

With a sigh that could’ve ended civilizations, I rolled out of bed, dragged on a hoodie, and stumbled downstairs.

The smell of coffee hit me first—warm and cruel. She was waiting on the couch with her phone angled like she was filming a reaction video. Her face was way too smug.

“Sweetheart,” she started, waving her phone. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

I froze. “Depends. Is this about my grades or a crime?”

She hit play before I could blink.

And there I was—standing in the middle of the café, eyes wild, voice sharp, words pouring out like venom. My voice filled the room again:

> “He’s got a tiny dick—two minutes in and he’s already gasping for a break!”

I lunged for her phone. “Oh my God, Mom, turn that off!”

She yanked it back, eyes wide. “Yara Nightingale! What on earth possessed you to say that in public?”

“Heat of the moment?” I muttered, collapsing onto the couch. “Temporary insanity? Hormonal possession?”

She stared at me, speechless. “You’ve gone viral, Yara. Half the town has seen this! The school board probably has too.”

“Awesome,” I said flatly. “Can’t wait to be the girl who single-handedly killed Falcon Falls High’s reputation.”

She crossed her arms. “People are calling you ‘The Two-Minute Girl.’”

I buried my face in my hands. “That’s… that’s not even accurate!”

She tried not to laugh. Tried and failed. “Yara—oh my God—stop, that’s not funny,” she wheezed.

“It’s mortifying!” I said, voice muffled against my palms. “Everyone’s going to think I’m some psycho ex who can’t keep her mouth shut!”

Mom regained her composure, but her lips were still twitching. “Well… were you at least wearing something decent when you said it?”

I groaned. “You’re seriously asking about my outfit?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Public image, Yara. It matters.”

I wanted to scream. Or vanish. Or maybe both. My brain was doing backflips between humiliation and disbelief.

Then her voice softened. “Honey, why didn’t you just walk away? You could’ve handled that privately.”

I stared at her. “Mom, he was about to kiss Cassie. In public. After ghosting me.”

Her mouth formed a small “oh.”

“Yeah,” I said, slumping deeper into the couch. “So I gave them a show.”

Silence. Then—

“Well,” she said finally, “you certainly did that.”

I turned to her. “So… what now? Witness protection? Homeschooling?”

She smirked. “School. You’re going to school.”

My jaw dropped. “After this? Mom, the principal will expel me!”

She just stared at me, that glint of smug power in her eyes.

“Remind me who the principal is again?”

I groaned. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“Yes.”

She smiled. “Then you should know me better by now.”

I flopped back against the couch. “You’re evil.”

She sipped her tea, unbothered. “You’ll thank me later. Now go get dressed before I show this video at morning assembly.”

I blinked. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would. It’s a valuable lesson on digital reputation.”

“Mom!”

She just grinned, completely unbothered. “Come on, Two-Minute Girl. Time to face your audience.”

My mouth fell open. “You did not just call me that.”

Her laughter followed me all the way up the stairs.

By the time I reached my room, I was half mortified, half murderous. I could feel heat creeping up my neck, the kind that comes with realizing you might be a local meme.

I grabbed my pillow and screamed into it. Twice. Then just lay there listening to my heartbeat crash in my ears.

Somewhere below, the kettle whistled again, casual and traitorous. The world was moving on, while my entire existence had become a punchline.

And as I slammed my door shut, I could still hear her voice downstairs, amused and far too calm for someone raising a public menace.

“Yara?”

I opened the door, glaring. “What?”

She tilted her head, all fake innocence.

“Try not to go viral again. I can’t have the principal’s daughter trending for profanity twice in one week.”

I shut the door in her face.

Hard.

The sound echoed like a period at the end of a disaster.

I leaned against the door, staring at my reflection in the mirror—hair messy, eyes tired, hoodie half-zipped. Somewhere between “teenage crisis” and “public scandal.”

My life? Officially canceled.