The numbers glared at me from my laptop screen, each one a tiny needle in my already deflating ego. Three views. Five views. Sixteen on a good day. The pale blue glow of the monitor painted my cramped apartment in a sickly hue that matched my mood—a fitting ambiance for failure. I scrolled through YouTube analytics again, as if torturing myself might somehow change the results.
My latest video—a carefully crafted explanation of navigating life as an empath—had been live for three days and had accumulated exactly four views. Two of which were my own desperate refreshes, hoping someone, anyone, might stumble upon my corner of the internet.
I’d spent hours on that video. Setting up proper lighting. Adjusting the microphone and second camera. Speaking clearly but not too quickly. Editing out the moments when my voice cracked with uncertainty. Adding subtle background music that wouldn’t distract from my words but would create the right atmosphere for spiritual guidance.
All for four views.
The cursor hovered over the next video in my dashboard. Seven views. The one before that, nine. Numbers so small they weren’t even worth counting. Numbers that whispered a truth I didn’t want to hear: no one was listening.
My finger pressed down on the trackpad with more force than necessary, and the laptop snapped shut with a sound like a coffin lid. The sudden darkness felt appropriate.
“This is useless,” I muttered, pressing my palms against my eyes until colors swirled behind my eyelids.
A subtle shift in the air made me look up. From the corner of my eye, I caught the familiar shimmer of Mister B. materializing near my bookshelf—a rippling in reality like heat rising from summer pavement, gradually taking the form of a good-looking gentleman with impeccable, old-fashioned taste.
“The universe rewards persistence,” he said. His voice carried the distant quality of an old vinyl record—present but echoing from somewhere else.
I didn’t answer him. Sometimes I wondered if my spirit guides were just manifestations of my own desperate need for encouragement, hallucinations born from loneliness.
A second presence filled the room with the scent of pipe tobacco and Florida Water. Grandpa formed more slowly than Mister B., his outline blurring at the edges like a watercolor painting left in the rain.
“You need patience, my child,” he said. His words carried the weight of someone who had waited decades for dreams to materialize.
The air shifted again, grew warmer. Ma arrived in a swirl of cinnamon and clove.
“I like your videos, babygirl,” she said, her smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. “And you will find an audience who likes them too.”
Auntie’s arrival was announced by the scent of roses and coconut oil.
“A business isn’t built in a day. Just like Rome,” she said, waving a spectral hand dismissively. “And my business took time to grow, too.”
I gestured at the closed laptop, a heaviness settling in my chest. “Does it? Two subscribers. Two.” I laughed, but the sound was hollow, a marble dropped down an empty well. “And I’m pretty sure one of them is a bot.”
The spirits exchanged glances, a silent conversation passing between them. I’d seen that look before—concern wrapped in determination, the look of guardians who wanted to help but didn’t know how.
I pushed away the tangled sheets, the bed’s tired springs creaking against the worn hardwood floor. The makeshift altar in the corner of my studio apartment beckoned—a low table draped with a purple cloth I’d found at a thrift store, adorned with crystals, dried herbs in small jars, and at its center, my tarot deck.
My fingers hovered over the tarot deck on my nightstand, trembling slightly. The familiar ritual—shuffle, cut, draw, interpret—had always provided clarity, or at least comfort. But tonight, a new fear gripped me: what if the cards confirmed what the numbers already told me?
I withdrew my hand.
“The cards never lie,” Mister B. commented from somewhere behind me.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I replied, not turning to look at him.
Ma moved closer, her presence warming the air around me. “The cards don’t predict the future, babygirl. They reflect possibilities.”
“And right now, all possibilities point to failure.” The words tasted bitter on my tongue.
“Melodrama doesn’t suit you,” Auntie said sharply. “I didn’t build my business by whining when the first customers didn’t come.”
I turned to face her, irritation flaring. “This isn’t the 1800’s, Auntie. The internet has millions of tarot readers, psychics, empaths—all fighting for the same eyeballs. And I’m losing.”
“You think competition is new?” She scoffed, her form flickering with intensity. “My block had three other psychics, although we didn’t call ourselves psychic back in the day. The woman across the street performed a fertility spell for an egg and a cup of rice.”
Grandpa moved closer “Struggle is universal.”
I sank onto the floor beside my altar, suddenly too tired to stand. The worn carpet scratched against my bare legs.
“Maybe I’m not meant for this,” I said quietly. “Maybe I’m not special enough, or intuitive enough, or—”
“Or maybe,” Mister B. interrupted, “you’re exactly where you need to be, learning exactly what you need to learn.”
I traced the edge of the altar cloth with my finger, following the faded pattern of stars and moons. “And what am I learning? How to fail publicly?”
“How to persist when success isn’t immediate,” Grandpa suggested.
“How to refine your voice,” Ma added.
“How to grow a backbone,” Auntie muttered.
I couldn’t help but smile, just slightly. But comfort didn’t pay rent.
I looked back at the closed laptop, a sleek black rectangle that contained both my hopes and my disappointments. Tomorrow I’d try again. Film another video. Edit until my eyes burned. Upload it into the void. Because what else could I do?
The spirit guides began to fade, sensing my need for solitude. Mister B. went first, dissolving like sugar in hot tea. Grandpa tipped an imaginary hat before his form rippled away. Ma blew me a kiss that felt like a warm breeze against my cheek. Auntie was the last to go, fixing me with a stern look that said more than words could.
And then I was alone in my apartment, surrounded by books on tarot, crystals that caught the dim light, and the ghosts of ambitions that refused to materialize.
I didn’t reach for the cards again. What’s the point of asking the cards when reality is already giving you such a clear answer?
Instead, I crawled into bed fully clothed, pulled the covers over my head, and tried to ignore the weight of failure pressing down on my chest, heavier than any nightmare.
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