That money was our future, every penny saved since graduation for the home we dreamed of building together.

Riccardo shot to his feet, avoiding my gaze, and bolted for the door. It slammed shut with a deafening bang, his words echoing, "Come find me when you're yourself again!"

I shrugged and went on to scroll through the haters' posts.

KeyboardFury's update had gone viral, sparking a fresh wave of ridicule. They called me a masochist, a reverse saint, and the internet's biggest fool.

My phone rang with a call from Emily Brown, my best friend.

"Patricia, are you out of your mind?" she shouted over the phone. "I gave you #200,000 to hire a lawyer and sue those creeps, not to buy them takeout!"

"It's my choice," I replied calmly. "You don't need to worry."

"Don't worry? You're letting those jerks walk all over you, and you're using my money to feed them! You're degrading yourself! The whole internet's laughing at you! You're breaking my heart!" she snarled, hanging up.

When I called back, a robotic voice answered, "The subscriber you're dialing is busy now."

I logged onto WhatsApp, but my message to her was met with a highlighted exclamation mark: Emily has enabled friend verification. You are not her friend.

She'd blocked me on PayPal, too. Every way to reach her was severed.

On my screen, the haters reveled in a new frenzy. A trending hashtag #MakeAWishToPatricia flooded social media. They listed their dream meals:

[M9-grade wagyu, charcoal-grilled!]

[Black truffle pizza—looks pricey as hell.]

[You guys are basic. I want nyotaimori, with Patricia serving herself!]

Their sneering faces seemed to leer through the screen, but my grin only widened.

...

The next day, as I prepared another round of deliveries, the doorbell rang. It was my cousin, Della Harris, whom I hadn't seen in ages.

"I saw what was happening online," she said, her voice dripping with false concern. "Don't let it get to you. Those people are scum!"

Her eyes darted around, noting Riccardo's absence. "Where is Riccardo? With all this going on, how is he leaving you alone?"

"He's busy," I said flatly.

A flicker of smugness crossed her face before she masked it with pity. She glanced at my phone, where I'd left open a list of the haters' wishes from the night before.

"Are you really buying them food?" she gasped, feigning shock. "You're too soft! If it were me, I'd wish they'd get hit by a car the second they stepped outside."

While speaking out against injustice, she slipped her hand into her pocket and fished out her phone. Peeking at my order screen, she quickly snapped a photo.

I pretended not to notice, continuing to tap away on the app. She added, "This can't go on. You're rewarding their cruelty. Are you trying to guilt them into remorse?"

I said nothing, meeting her gaze with a slow, knowing smile. She faltered, "What's that smile for?"

I leaned in, whispering, "You're right. I want them to eat well and drink well."

She stumbled back, startled. "I-I just remembered something. I've got to go."

Minutes later, a new post rocketed to the top of social media, boosted by bots.

[Explosive Scoop! Food Vlogger Patricia's Relative Spills the Truth Behind Her Takeout Scheme!]

The anonymous insider expressed heartache over my saintly behavior, then purposefully revealed my supposed motive: crafting a forgiving, magnanimous persona to win public sympathy and stage a comeback as a livestream influencer.

Attached was Della's secret screenshot of my order history.

[I knew it! No way she is that altruistic. It's all a stunt!]

[Disgusting! She'd do anything for clout.]

[Full marks for the act. Black or white, fame is fame!]

[Don't buy it! Keep roasting her. Let's see how long she plays saint!]

...

The Saint Persona narrative spread like a virus. This seemingly logical explanation emboldened the haters to accept my deliveries without guilt, now smug in the belief they'd seen through my ploy.

Late that night, Riccardo sent a long message, begging me to stop reading the comments and hurting myself. He'd lined up a top therapist.

I read the message and deleted it, ready to prepare another round of orders, when the doorbell rang frantically.

My parents stood there, having rushed from our hometown overnight. My mother's eyes welled up, and she pulled me into a crushing hug. "Sweetheart, you've lost so much weight. What's happened to you?"

My father slammed his fist down on the table. "Those beasts! I'm going to the police tomorrow to drag them all out!"

Their warmth enveloped me, a flicker of comfort I hadn't felt in weeks.

"Listen," my mother sobbed. "Cut the internet, come back home, and leave this behind, okay?"

"That's right," my father echoed. "That online world is poison. It's cursed you."

I tried to explain, but to them, my words were the ravings of a broken mind. Losing control, I shouted, "You don't understand!"

"Understand?" my mother cried. "All we know is our daughter has been driven mad."

Just then, the TV, playing local news, cut to a street interview. A familiar username appeared: NetJudge.

He grinned at the camera. "Some idiot keeps sending me gourmet meals. Guess she's fallen for the guy who roasts her hardest!"

His friends cackled beside him. "Classic mental breakdown from getting flamed! Can't handle it? Stay offline. She's desperate for fame, playing the saint. Pathetic!"

My father pointed a trembling finger at me. "How could we raise something so shameful? They spit in your face, and you send them gifts? Keep this up, and you're no daughter of ours. We won't bear this disgrace!"

Riccardo appeared, his voice soft but firm. "Come home with us, Patricia. Stop this."

I closed my eyes, exhaling heavily. "Guys, do you believe they'll stop laughing soon?"

I unlocked my phone and opened an app they'd never seen. "Now, do you still think I'm crazy?"