Kate
The hallway outside Betty’s house was so quiet, it felt like even the air was holding its breath. I knocked twice, then once more. Nothing. I was about to leave when the door creaked open an inch. Just enough to show Betty’s tear-wrecked face.
She looked like she’d been crying for days. Her hoodie sleeves swallowed her hands. Her hair was a tangled mess. Her eyes—puffy, red, dim—looked past me, not at me.
“I’m not here to make it worse,” I said softly.
She didn’t answer. But she didn’t shut the door either.
I slipped inside quietly. Her room was a mausoleum of heartbreak—curtains shut, stale air, laptop closed, camera buried under a hoodie like it hurt to look at. She climbed wordlessly onto her bed and curled into the pillow like she was trying to disappear.
I sat in her desk chair and pulled out my phone.
“You need to see something,” I said.
“No, I really don’t.”
“Yeah,” I said, unlocking the screen. “You really do.”
I typed her name into Instagram and pulled up the latest reposts. “Look. They’re not mocking you, Betty. They’re backing you.”
She turned her face to the side. “Please don’t—”
“They’re reposting your video and defending you,” I said, holding the phone toward her. “Some of the biggest feminist accounts on campus have already tagged it. Girlboss Daily, BodyLuv, SelfLoveUni, even bloody Y2KPowerFem.”
Betty hesitated—then slowly, reluctantly, took the phone.
The first post was from @girlbossdaily:
“Whoever leaked this should rot. But Betty Branson? You’re raw. Real. Revolutionary.”
The next from @bodyluvclub:
“This video made me cry. Not from shame—but pride. Every girl who's ever hated her body is standing with Betty right now.”
Then came @theglowedit:
“We don't protect victims nearly enough. We gaslight them into silence. But not Betty. She stood in the fire. And she’s still here.”
I watched her scroll. Her fingers trembled. She blinked hard.
“They’re not laughing,” I said quietly. “They’re listening.”
“But the memes,” she whispered. “The comments…”
“Yeah. Trolls exist. They always will. But the people who matter? The ones who feel what you felt? They're with you. You’re not some joke anymore. You’re a voice.”
Betty let out a shaky breath. Her eyes started to water again—but this time, not just from pain.
“Why… why are you here?” she asked.
I hesitated. “Because you don’t know everything. And you need to.”
She sat up a little, guarded.
I took a breath. “Marcus didn’t send that message.”
Betty froze.
“Vel stole his phone. Stacey planned it. They found the video on your laptop. They sent it. They posted it. Not Marcus.”
Her lips parted. No sound.
“He didn’t even know until yesterday. When he found out? He snapped. Beat Vel bloody after practice. Marcus Mitchell got suspended, Betty. He’s off the team. Might get expelled.”
Betty stared at me like I’d just thrown her out of the window. “What…?”
“He lost it,” I said gently. “For you.”
“I… I thought…” Her voice cracked. “He didn’t even text me.”
“He couldn’t. He didn’t have his phone.”
She covered her mouth, silent sob catching in her throat.
“I don’t know what’s between you two,” I added. “But if a guy gets suspended for defending you, you should at least talk to him.”
Her face crumpled. “Oh my god… he got suspended?”
“Betty.” I leaned forward. “You matter to him. Maybe more than either of you realize.”
She wiped her face. “I can’t see him like this.”
“You won’t,” I said, already walking to her wardrobe. “We’re fixing that.”
“What are you—?”
“Makeover. Full send. We’re giving them the glow-up of their nightmares.”
“I look like a disaster,” she muttered.
“No,” I corrected. “You look like someone who survived something brutal. Now you’re going to look like someone who took back the power.”
I pulled out the red skirt from the talent show last year. “This still fit?”
She flushed. “Barely.”
“Perfect. Add attitude. Where’s that fitted black crop top?”
She pointed weakly. I tossed it to her, then grabbed her makeup bag. “Shower. Hair. Liner. We’re building a swan today, not hiding a braceface.”
Betty let out the tiniest snort. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“I can,” I said, grinning. “The internet already crowned you. Time to step into it.”
She stood slowly, shaky but determined.
And in that moment—I didn’t see a victim.
I saw a damn phoenix.