The Season You Left Unclaimed

1 As a creator with forty million followers, I chose peak engagement hours to finally introduce Derek to the world. A single, unedited portrait of him was all it took to pull eight million likes in a matter of hours. My comment section blew up instantly, flooded with thousands asking if he was my boyfriend. I didn't play coy. I answered with a simple, proud yes. Yet, barely twelve hours later, the tide violently turned. The affection evaporated, replaced by a wall of brutal, sneering vitriol. She’s live with him on her channel right now saying he doesn't even know you. Embarrassing much? Check out Sadie’s page if you want to see what a real couple looks like. Imagine posting someone else’s man and claiming he’s yours. Clout-chasing bully. My stomach dropped. I sat frozen on my couch, tapping through the tagged handles until I landed on the profile. It belonged to a mid-tier lifestyle account with around three hundred thousand followers. The woman behind it was Sadie Jenkins—Derek’s lifelong "best friend." I took a screenshot of her latest post and sent it to Derek, demanding an explanation. His response came with an airy, dismissive laugh. "Elena, relax. Sadie’s reach has been stalling for months. We’re just playing up a little fake-dating drama to give her engagement a boost." "It’s really not a big deal," he added, his voice completely casual. "Don't take it to heart." For three years, Derek had insisted he hated being in front of a camera. He claimed the entire digital landscape made him uncomfortable. When I finally convinced him to let me post that single photo, it had taken two weeks of relentless begging before he reluctantly gave in. And yet, there he was on Sadie’s grid—starring in over a dozen affectionate couple vlogs and co-hosting late-night streams. I listened to the hollow hum of the receiver, said nothing, and hung up. Then, I opened my profile and deleted the photo. If that was the game they wanted to play, I would simply step out of the frame. 2 Because Derek had explicitly denied knowing me on a public platform, my account hemorrhaged nearly a hundred and fifty thousand followers in under an hour. Sadie’s account, meanwhile, gained over a hundred thousand. With heavy eyelids, I reopened her page. She had posted a new photo just ten minutes prior. It was a candid shot of her and Derek. Neither of them was looking at the camera; they were locked in an intimate, laughing gaze, leaning so close their shoulders overlapped. A simple, unpolished picture, yet in ten minutes it had already racked up thousands of comments and tens of thousands of likes. I opened the comment section. Pinned at the very top was a comment from a freshly created profile. I didn't even need to check the bio to know it was Derek’s. The comments underneath were a chorus of adoration, hailing them as soulmates. Then, someone dragged my name into the dirt. I still can't believe a top-tier influencer literally tried to claim another girl's boyfriend in the comments. Thoughts, @ElenaHayes? The comment gained traction rapidly, riding a wave of malicious upvotes. I typed out a four-word reply: Believe whatever you like. That single response unleashed an even darker torrent into my direct messages. This time, it wasn't just mockery; it was violent threats, targeted harassment, and explicit wishes for my ruin. Internet sleuths began dissecting my older travel videos, twisting every line of voiceover script into evidence of a manipulative persona. By dinner, my inbox was flooded with emails from brand partners. Three major campaigns were canceled effective immediately. Worse, citing damage to their corporate reputation, two of the companies attached formal demands for liquidated damages. 3 When Derek came home that evening, he carried a bakery box containing a blueberry ice cream cake—my favorite. He walked into the kitchen, placing the box softly onto the marble island. "Still pouting?" His tone carried that familiar, patronizing weariness. "It’s just a clout-chasing strategy, Elena. It’s not like I’m actually sleeping with her." Just a strategy. Whenever I had asked to soft-launch our relationship, he had complained about the hassle, claiming he refused to expose his private life to the internet. The single portrait I posted was the absolute limit of his compromise. Derek had never cared for social media. He had never even owned an active profile. And he certainly hadn't stepped up to claim the photo I posted. "Don't be dramatic," Derek continued, utterly oblivious to the quiet collapse inside me. "Sadie’s channel has been dying. She came up with this concept to save her metrics. You know how close we are. It’s just content." Of course I knew how close they were. They were childhood neighbors, raised in the same cul-de-sac, constantly tumbling through each other's lives. Sadie wore the "one of the guys" label like a badge of honor, always insisting she looked down on him. When Derek and I first started dating seven years ago, she had snorted in my face, her voice dripping with exaggerated theatricality. "How on earth did you fall for him?" she had laughed, shaking her head. "Derek was still wetting the bed at six! And in high school, he had a wet dream and panicked so hard he thought he was dying!" "You should've seen his face the first time I wore a sundress—his ears turned bright red! Haha!" She only stopped when Derek finally snapped at her to shut up. That was their dynamic. I met Derek’s gaze. "Do you have any idea what my inbox looks like right now?" "My brand sponsors are pulling out because of the fallout," I said, my voice eerily calm. "They’re suing me for breach of brand protection clauses." Derek shrugged, utterly unbothered by the financial ruin knocking at my door. He let out a short, dismissive sigh. "How much is it? Just send me the bill, I'll wire you the money." "Derek, this isn't about money." I closed my eyes, a heavy, suffocating pressure settling deep in my chest. When I opened them again, the room felt darker. Seeing my expression, Derek’s patience snapped. "Then what do you actually want from me?" he said, his voice rising in irritation. "Sadie finally has some momentum. If I come out and clear things up right now, her account is done for." "I promise you, as soon as her follower count stabilizes, we’ll set the record straight." I looked at him, the words catching in my throat like dry cotton. I couldn't swallow them down, nor could I force them out. He was terrified of damaging Sadie’s trajectory. But it hadn't even crossed his mind that I was being incinerated in the process. Especially after I had risked my platform to finally claim him. Before I could speak, Derek’s phone chimed with an incoming FaceTime call. He raised a hand, signaling for me to stop whatever I was about to say, and swiped to answer. Sadie’s vibrant voice echoed through the speaker. "Derek! Are you free right now? My followers are dying for a live stream, and I’m almost at your building!" Derek shot a quick glance in my direction. On the screen, Sadie lifted an eyebrow, her smile playfully sharp. "Oh, is the lady of the house there? It’s just a routine stream, I’m sure she won't mind, right?" "She doesn't mind," Derek answered for me without hesitation. "You know the door code. Just come on up." As he tapped the screen to end the call, I looked at him directly. "How does she know our door code?" Derek didn't look up. "Last month she was too tired to drive back to her apartment, so she crashed here for the night." He paused, as if remembering something, and added a quiet warning: "When Sadie gets here, don't give her an attitude. It’ll ruin the vibe on camera." I stared at him, feeling a strange, hollow silence wash over me. I had nothing left to say. 4 While Sadie set up her ring light in the living room downstairs, I stayed locked in the primary bedroom, pulling up her stream on a burner account. The viewer count was already soaring past a hundred thousand, climbing by the second. On screen, Sadie was curled casually into Derek’s side on our sectional sofa, happily eating a slice of the blueberry ice cream cake he had brought home. When a comment flashed across the screen asking if they were officially dating, Sadie nudged Derek with her elbow in an easy, practiced gesture. "The chat wants to know," she cooed, leaning into him. "Are we real, or what?" It looked entirely natural. Sadie had always claimed that because they grew up together, physical touch was second nature to them. She had told me repeatedly not to read into it—that I should just view her as one of Derek’s male buddies. Derek reached out, his fingers trailing lazily through her hair before resting on her shoulder. "Of course we're real," he smiled gently into the camera. "No faking here." When the words left his mouth, Sadie scooped a piece of cake onto her fork and held it up to his lips. Derek didn't hesitate. He opened his mouth and ate it. A cold knot tightened in my stomach. Derek hated sweets. In seven years, whenever I brought home desserts and offered him a bite, he always refused with a look of distaste. Eventually, after I asked enough times, he grew annoyed, and I stopped asking altogether. It turned out he didn't hate sweets after all. The chat was scrolling so fast it was a blur, but several comments stood out, calling my name. What’s the deal with Elena Hayes then? Is she delusional, or is she a homewrecker trying to slide in? Derek caught the comment. "Elena Hayes?" he mused aloud, his tone casual. "What's her deal...?" My breathing hitched. I braced myself, waiting to hear what seven years of shared history, shared dinners, and shared dreams meant to him in this moment. He let out a quiet chuckle. "There’s no deal. I don't even know her." A high-pitched, incredulous laugh escaped my chest in the quiet of the bedroom. Seven years. Reduced to I don't even know her. Lmao! She posted that photo claiming he was her secret man and that he didn't even have social media. This girl is a pathological liar. When people had tried to locate Derek’s online digital footprint after my upload, I had defended his privacy, telling my audience he didn't use social media apps. It had been the truth. But now, it was framed as proof of my fraud. Derek offered no correction. He simply let the lie hang in the air. Sadie, acting the part of the gracious host, waved a hand toward the camera with a playful smile. "Let’s keep the chat positive, guys. No need to give free publicity to outside noise." Derek looked down at her with fond indulgence, smoothing down a stray lock of her hair. "Right. What do you want to talk about instead?" Sadie’s eyes lit up with mischief. "How about the story of how we ended up together?" "Sure," Derek agreed softly. I exited the app and tossed the phone onto the bed. Outside the bedroom door, the muffled chatter from the live stream echoed faintly through the hallway. Two hours later, Derek knocked on the bedroom door. He didn't ask for my input; he simply delivered an ultimatum. "It’s getting late. Sadie’s going to stay in the guest room tonight." He had already made up his mind. Coming into the room was merely a formality. Sadie popped out from behind his shoulder, resting her chin lightly on his arm as she smiled at me. "Hope you don't mind, Elena. If it really makes you uncomfortable, I can try to call an Uber home right now." Derek frowned immediately, turning to her. "It’s past midnight. It’s not safe for a girl to travel alone at this hour." Sadie shot me a pointed glance. "Well, safety doesn't matter if I'm making your girlfriend uncomfortable. I should probably just leave." "You're not going anywhere," Derek said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You’re sleeping here." "Well, if Elena..." She let her sentence drift off into a delicate, helpless pause. Derek turned back to me, his voice sharp. "Elena, come on—" "Do whatever you want," I interrupted, my tone flat. "I don't care." Derek let out a visible sign of relief. "See? I told you she wouldn't care." "Thanks so much, Elena," Sadie said, her eyes gleaming. "Don't worry, I honestly just look at Derek like a brother. Nothing weird is ever gonna happen." I turned away without a word. 5 Derek walked back into the master bedroom a few minutes later, grabbing a fresh set of clothes before heading toward the bathroom. "Derek," I called out softly. He stopped, turning his head. I had already contacted a local real estate agent earlier that evening. This condo—the home we had chosen together, the place meant to be our marital home—was no longer something I wanted to keep. The agent had completed a fast evaluation over the phone and sent through a rough appraisal. "If you’re looking for an immediate liquidation," the agent had warned me, "we’ll need to set the listing price about ten percent below market value to catch cash buyers. Are you okay with that hit?" I hadn't hesitated for a second. "List it tomorrow. Sell it as fast as possible." After ending the call with the agent, I noticed Sadie had posted another video. I clicked on it. This time, the camera wasn't focused on Sadie. It was focused entirely on Derek. "Look who’s making lunch today, guys~" Sadie’s voiceover cooed behind the lens. "Let’s see if Mr. Handsome can actually cook." The camera panned over Derek’s profile as he chopped vegetables at our kitchen island, his focus entirely on the stove. Derek hated being filmed, and he hated cooking even more. In seven years, I had never dared to point a lens at his face while he worked around the house. When we were too busy to cook, we ordered takeout. That was our routine for nearly a decade. Yet here he was, playing the dutiful, domestic partner for four million newfound followers. I didn't finish the video. I closed the app. I switched over to my professional brand manager account. The interface lagged for a moment under the sheer volume of incoming notifications. Even without opening the direct messages, I knew the contents: violent threats, demands for my cancellation, and detailed insults about my character. In just three days, my follower count had plummeted by over three million. Originally, this account had been created to document my relationship with Derek. But Derek had refused, claiming he didn't want his private life exposed online. So, I adapted. I pivoted to travel, history, and cultural storytelling. I spent years wandering through historic districts, researching architecture, and crafting narrative scripts until I built an audience that loved the world through my eyes. Perhaps that was where our cracks had begun. He resented how often I traveled for shoots, complaining that I was never anchored at home. So I had decided to take a sabbatical at the peak of my career, to stay home, to make time for him, and to finally introduce him to the world. And his response had been to launch a fake romance with Sadie. My phone vibrated in my palm. It was a text from Derek. Elena, I’m flying to Savannah with Sadie for a week-long vlog shoot. I’ll bring you back a souvenir when I’m home. Before I could type a reply, a voice memo popped up beneath his text. It wasn't Derek’s voice. It was Sadie’s. Her laugh was bright and airy through the speaker: "Don't worry, Elena! I’ll make sure to keep a close eye on your man so no other women try to slide into his DMs." "Though, since this is a couple’s travel series, the brand booked us a suite with a single king bed. Hope you aren't the jealous type! You know how it is—we're basically brothers." A dry, bitter laugh escaped my throat. I left the message unread. A second later, Derek’s call came through. The moment I pressed answer, his sharp, impatient voice filled my ear. "Didn't you see my text? Why aren't you replying?" He didn't ask if I was okay. He didn't ask what I was doing. His very first instinct was an accusation. I opened my mouth to speak, but the loud overhead chime of an airport boarding call echoed clearly through his end of the line. He hadn't texted to inform me; he had texted as an afterthought while walking down the jet bridge. "Look, Sadie and I are boarding for Savannah right now," he said rapidly, his voice clipped. "I know what I’m doing. Don't overthink it. I'll get you something nice at the airport on the way back. Gotta go." "Derek," I said, my voice steadying. "Let's break up—" Click. The line went dead before I could finish the sentence, replaced by the hollow rhythm of a busy tone. 6 Because the condo was priced significantly below market value, a buyer stepped forward almost immediately. It was a young married couple, eager to secure a home in the district but previously priced out by the market. My listing was a perfect match for their budget. Once the purchase agreement was signed and escrow opened, I began packing. Five years of living in that apartment meant five years of accumulated life. It took three full days of heavy lifting and sorting to clear every trace of my existence from the rooms. I moved into a modest, single-bedroom apartment downtown that I owned outright. During those three days, Derek didn't call or text once. Instead, his presence was announced through Sadie’s feed, which featured a new video of them at a luxury boutique hotel in Savannah. On screen, they looked every bit the devoted, hopelessly-in-love couple. Their interactions were seamless, affectionate, and drenched in domestic intimacy. If I hadn't been his girlfriend for seven years, I might have rooted for them too. On my final night at the old apartment, I rendered and uploaded a new video to my channel. When I woke up the following morning, I checked my notification tab out of habit. The comment section under my new upload was an absolute battlefield. Are you serious right now? First you try to claim another girl's fiancé, and now you're straight-up plagiarizing her content line for line? Have some self-respect. I used to respect your work so much, but this is pathetic. Go check Sadie’s latest upload. It’s word-for-word the exact same script. Plagiarism? Every single word of my travel scripts was researched, drafted, and refined by me alone over late nights at my desk. The idea that I would copy anyone—let alone Sadie—was absurd. I opened Sadie’s profile and played her latest video. My hands turned ice cold. Every sentence, every historical reference, every subtle nuance of the voiceover was an exact replica of the draft sitting in my cloud drive. Even the background music—a niche, instrumental track I had spent hours searching for—was identical. The only person who had ever seen that script was Derek. I remembered the night I wrote it. I had sat beside him on the couch, showing him two different audio tracks, asking for his opinion on which mood fit the voiceover better. He had passed my work directly to Sadie. A shudder ran through my chest as my blood ran cold. I dialed Derek’s number immediately. When he picked up, I fought to keep my voice from trembling. "Why did you give my script to Sadie?" "Do you have any idea how many nights I stayed up writing that?" There was a long beat of silence on his end before Derek finally spoke, his voice completely nonchalant. "Sadie was short on content for her Savannah brand deal, so I sent it over to her." He spoke as if he had lent her a paperclip. "It’s just a script, Elena. What’s the big deal? Just write another one." Just write another one. As if creative labor was as trivial as breathing out air. A breathless, tearful laugh burst from my chest. "Derek, do you have any idea what people are calling me online right now?" He went quiet again. He knew. "Look," Derek sighed softly, his voice dropping into a pacifying register. "I’ll make it up to you when I get back to Seattle, okay?" "Just... delete your video for now, Elena. Don't make a scene. It’s bad for your image, and it’s bad for Sadie’s launch." He was still protecting her. Even now, his first instinct was to shield Sadie from the backlash of his own theft. "Right," I whispered. I didn't yell. I didn't argue. I simply ended the call. Then, I pulled out my old laptop, unlocked my backup hard drives, and began organizing my files.