The IP address was familiar. Too familiar. My blood ran cold. I checked the logs. Danielle’s IP. She hadn’t just tried to access my personal files; she’d tried hacking into my primary application framework, attempting to steal my work, my livelihood.
I wasn’t surprised. Just numb. This, I realized, was the inevitable result of years spent being invisible, waiting for them to finally see me. Now I knew they saw me, but they saw me as a threat. Something to suppress. Something to dismantle.
I confronted Danielle over the phone, my voice steady despite the tremors that ran through my hands. “You tried to hack my app, didn’t you?” I asked, the words feeling heavy, accusatory. She laughed it off, the familiar smirk audible in her voice. “You’re too serious, Ashley. It’s just code.”
“But it wasn’t just code,” I replied, the words catching in my throat. “It was mine.”
When I told Mom, expecting some flicker of understanding, some long-overdue reckoning, she dismissed it with a wave of her hand. “Don’t make a big deal out of it, Ashley. Danielle’s just figuring things out. You know, she’s my gold.”
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