I slouched deeper into the chair, mouse dragging down the feed like I was picking at a scab I knew better than to touch. 

The glow of the screen painted my face in cold light, every comment another slap.

You suck.

Rookie.

You call yourself an engineer? A writer?

They didn’t come with explanation or nuance, just hard, throwaway cruelty, the kind strangers hurl because they’ll never have to look you in the eye. Each line pressed on me, stacking doubt on top of fatigue.

Then Otis landed in my lap, solid and certain, a warm weight against my knees. For a second, the impact dulled, like he was centering me, reminding me I wasn’t entirely alone under the glare of that screen. He didn’t look at me; he looked at the screen, like he’d come to witness the trial. His whiskers twitched, slow, deliberate.

“So, they hate you,” he said.

I rubbed at my temple, the words still echoing. “The comments. They tore me apart. They despise me.”

Otis turned and head butted me, then again, the gesture was more judgment than comfort. He wasn’t impressed.

“Good. That means you made them feel something. Nobody wastes time booing wallpaper.”

I stared at him. “You think this is good?”

“Of course,” he purred. “The boos mean you’ve crossed the line from background noise to signal. Stravinsky was booed. Dylan too. Miles Davis caught more hate than applause before they called him a genius. The boos are the toll you pay at the gate of change.”

He kneaded his claws into my thigh, just enough to hurt.

“Silence is the real death. The boos mean you’re alive in their heads.”

Otis curled into my lap, eyes closing.

“Wear the boos like armor,” he whispered. “They mean you’re in the fight.”

Can We Help You?

What do you do when the world tells you you’re not good enough?

If this hit a nerve, good. That means you’re awake, and still in the fight.
Drop a comment and tell me how you handle the noise.

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The boos are loud. Let’s be louder.

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