55. [This video has been removed for copyright infringement.]
[This video has been removed for copyright infringement.]
Cruz
“Hey Cobrecita, I’m at my mom’s house for the weekend,” I said into the camera resting on top of a stack of books in Mama’s bedroom. The microphone balanced precariously on the dresser’s edge to pick up the sound of my voice and the guitar. “She’s cooking up a storm, sending back an entire suitcase of food for my freezer.”
You’re getting too thin, mijo , she said when I arrived, poking at my ribs. I shrugged her off, explaining that I wasn’t as hungry after deciding to only teach evening bootcamps. She eyed my excuse warily, as if she could see the truth that I was having so much trouble sleeping that morning classes felt impossible, and even if I had the energy, memories of Victoria laughing between sets with that stupid morning light shining off her hair would have pulled me under.
But I didn’t say any of that on the video.
“I’ll save you some sancocho, I think you’ll like it,” I offered, picking through the chord progression. “My sister’s annoyed that I didn't bring you home. She says my hair isn’t nearly as much fun to style as yours.”
I smiled, rolling my neck to let my loose hair fall over my shoulder, then let my mind wander. “I keep thinking about the last time you were here. How we danced around the kitchen until I started coughing. You remember? It wasn’t because I’d been singing too much, like you said. It was because I was scared to tell you how I felt.”
The song had felt tentative just a few months ago. I’d held her in my arms, her breath on my neck, breathing in her floral perfume. “I knew then that I was in love with you, but it felt too soon to say it. I couldn’t sing the words to you then … but I can now.”
Now as the lyrics fell from my lips, there was nothing tentative. I barreled into the bridge that had panicked me then, admitting that the biggest surprise was that she didn’t see, didn’t trust, didn’t believe how much I love her.
I ended the video the way I always did: “Stay strong, Cobrecita . I love you.”
I turned off the recording, releasing the forced smile from my face. It had been two weeks of these daily videos, two weeks of putting my heart on the line and hearing nothing in return. Grace’s advice had seemed simple: Keep showing up consistently, show her that she can trust you.
But after two weeks of radio silence, I was stuck in the limbo of her absence, recording videos in a desperate attempt to hold on to my last connection with her. Every video felt like screaming into the void.
Was I clinging to a memory of a woman who didn’t exist anymore?
Had the woman I loved been buried under the weight of her own responsibilities?
But this felt like all I could do: keep recording to show her that I hadn’t given up on her like everyone else did.
Even if she wasn’t watching … after weeks of daily videos, the internet had noticed.
Every afternoon at 1pm when the video dropped, #CobrecitaWatch was trending on social media. TechCrunch posted my thumbnails for a feature story, ‘A Grand Gesture for a Little Cobra.’ Redditors debated her potential identity, leading to a Buzzfeed listicle of ‘10 Women who might be Cobrecita.’ The frontrunner was Selena Gomez.
Dozens of people knew who I sang to. Anybody could make a pretty penny from the leak, but they protected her anonymity.
Every video comment thread not only speculated on Cobrecita’s identity, but also belittled her for leaving me. My DMs were filled with propositions to help me get over her. I turned the account over to Adriana—she spent her whole life on her phone, might as well put it to good use blocking trolls and repurposing clips of the songs I posted to YouTube for TikTok and Instagram.
I packed up my makeshift recording studio and rolled up the piece of shit air mattress I’d brought for the weekend, since I had to drive back to Saratoga tonight. Mama had insisted that I come down for the weekend, that being alone in the building filled with her memories wasn’t good for my mental health.
I hadn’t realized how quiet my life would be without Tori. I missed her heels clicking on the hardwood, her soft murmur on conference calls, her shower running because she refused to rush her nightly routine, her soft sighs when she was nodding off.
I even missed Prudence’s gentle purrs, curled up between my legs.
Without Tori, the silence was unbearable … though I wasn’t sure the constant noise of this house was better for me. I couldn’t handle much more of Mama force-feeding me and my sisters bickering.
Carrying my duffle bag down the stairs, the familiar smell of simmering garlic, lemon, and beef hit me. I dropped onto the couch, inhaling deeply and humming along to the soul music playing from the speaker.
“About time,” Luisa muttered, her books spread out across the kitchen table. “Mom’s been hyping up this sancocho like it can cure cancer.”
“C állate ,” Mama scolded, stirring the massive pot on the stove. “It’s good for the soul.”
Adriana was sprawled out across the couch, scrolling through her phone as always. “What’s today’s song?”
“You’ll have to listen like everyone else,” I answered. She’d been bugging me for a set list like this was a show for Your Local Phantom, but I never planned that far in advance. I always had some ideas floating around my mind, sure, but I didn’t know which song I would play until I sat down in front of the camera.
“Hey Cobrecita , I’m at my mom’s house for the weekend …” my voice played through her speaker.
“Can’t you put on headphones?” I grumbled, covering my ears. When I was recording, I tried to think of Victoria and block out the fact that other people would be listening … but Adriana punctured that illusion every day with instant text message reactions.
“Good choice,” she said too loudly after sliding in an earbud. “Clapton’s lawyers might not be as aggressive, so this might make up for today’s song you lost.”
I dropped my head back on the lumpy couch cushion, staring at the popcorn ceiling. “Not this again.”
“Yes, this again,” she lectured. “Some of your best songs are removed. ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’—gone. ‘Make You Feel My Love’—blocked in half the world. That John Legend song? Muted.”
I ran a hand over my face. What started as a way to express myself was becoming a giant pain in my ass.
Mama frowned. “If they’re taking your songs down, isn’t there something you can do?”
Adriana answered for me. “Yeah, he could monetize his channel. He has the subscribers, he doesn’t even have to do anything. He’s leaving thousands of dollars on the table every month, just to be stubborn.”
“I’m not doing this for money,” I muttered, running a hand over my face.
“Monetizing could stop the takedowns.”
Luisa spoke up from the kitchen table. “Technically, that’s not how it works.”
Adriana threw up her hands. “Go ahead and enlighten us, Captain Pre-Law.”
Luisa smirked, flipping through her notes. “When Cruz posts a cover, the copyright holder decides whether to block, mute, or monetize the video. Some artists are strict—Prince, The Beatles, Taylor Swift. If he turns on monetization, the labels might allow the covers because they get a cut. Monetization wouldn’t stop every takedown, but it would help.”
Adriana scoffed. “Speaking of your girl Taylor, today she muted ‘Lover.’”
I groaned, knowing how much Tori loved that song.
“She fought for those rights after getting screwed over by her old label,” Luisa defended, always the Swift apologist. “If she wants to block covers, she has every right to.”
Adriana let out a sharp laugh. “Yeah? Well, tell Taylor that our algorithm is tanking, our engagement is down, and our most romantic song is gone.”
“But I’m not doing this for money,” I repeated, my tone harsh enough to get the two of them to finally shut up. For 3.6 seconds, anyway.
Mama sighed, drying her hands on a dish towel. “So why are you doing it?”
That was the problem. What had been clear weeks ago—show Tori that I still cared about her , not her fucking money—was getting murkier.
Victoria always worried that people were capitalizing on her name and fortune. If I made money from the songs I sang her—even if I didn’t name her—would I be just as bad as everyone else?
“So you’re just gonna keep putting in hours of work, getting millions of views, and making exactly zero dollars?” When I nodded, my sister threw up her hands. “Unbelievable. You’re literally the only person on the internet who doesn’t want to make money.”
“I need some air,” I said, standing abruptly, checking my pockets then taking off out the front door.
“Guess we’re still not eating,” Luisa muttered as I shut the door behind me and started walking. I shoved my headphones in my ears … but didn’t turn on any music. My head was too cluttered. No songs came to mind, no playlist felt right.
I kept the headphones in so neighbors would leave me alone, walking the block with my head down and hands shoved into my jeans pockets. I wandered the aisles of a bodega for something to do, and bought a Coke for the drive home. The magazines behind the clerk stared back at me:
Business Insider : ‘Monarchy to Meritocracy’ with a snapshot from her introductory press conference, her thumb grazing the opposite wrist. She stared down the journalists wearing the same brazen expression she shot at me when I provoked her during boxing lessons: Go ahead, test me. Let me show you how wrong you are.
Forbes : ‘The Future of New York Real Estate.’ Her hand rested on the window overlooking Manhattan, wearing a soft smile like she was hiding an important secret. Jealousy roiled in my gut, wondering what the hell the photographer had said to get her to smile like that.
Fast Company : ‘Move over, Grandpa,’ showing her reclining in a power suit with those sexy Jimmy Choos propped up on her desk … and all her freckles on display.
Ignoring the twisting of my gut, I decided to tell her how proud I was of her in my text that night. I tried to send it consistently at 10pm, and every night it shifted to ‘Read’ almost immediately. I imagined her in her bed, with Prudence by her side, waiting for me to wish her goodnight. I'd seen her looking at the texts her dad sent her, her fingers hovering over the keys. Was she conflicted about not responding?
I grabbed my Coke and pushed through the door to head home … but I still wasn’t ready to go back inside and face their endless questions, not yet.
I leaned against the iron railing in front of Mama’s duplex to scan the Manhattan skyline. Only eight miles east, yet a million miles between us.
My eyes tracked south to a skyscraper, rising to the 78th floor, turning away before I could discover whether her lights were on. Would it hurt more or less, knowing that she left me to work herself to the bone?
I pushed open the gate and sat down on the concrete step, dropping my head into my hands. What the hell was I doing? It had felt like such an obvious way to show her I still cared, but what had I expected to happen? I sing some stupid songs, and she gives up her empire to do push-ups in a field?
After a few minutes of trying not to look at the skyline, the door swung open behind me. I felt the heat of a body on the stoop beside me followed by a warm hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry for pressuring you. I know that you’re not doing it for the money.”
“Do you?” I asked, lifting my head to face my sister.
“Of course,” Adriana said. “Otherwise I’d be demanding a salary as your social media manager.”
I laughed at her bluntness. “So why are you doing it, then? Why do you care so much?”
“Because I get the dopamine hit of the public reactions.” She held out her phone. “Read these. Comments from people who love your music.”
I barely glanced at the screen. “I don’t need to —”
“Just read them,” she insisted, shoving it into my hands. I sighed, knowing the futility of resisting.
My fiancé and I are long-distance, and we play your covers together every night on FaceTime to stay connected. Thank you for making love feel real, even from miles away.
I lost my wife 4 years ago, and your music brings me peace. Thank you for making love feel eternal.
My parents have been married for 40 years, and last night i caught them dancing in the kitchen to this one.
I blinked hard, jaw clenched. I hadn’t realized that what I was doing mattered to so many people. Sure, I’d seen the subscriber numbers climbing but I had no idea …
Then, a sneaky username stopped my scroll.
@Lil-Irish-Songbird-Told-Me
You didn’t hear this from me, but 12 of today’s listens are from one account.
Suddenly, I couldn’t scroll fast enough. “Adri, can I filter all the comments from one person?”
She leaned over to show me, and I clicked into a series of messages. Connor never said Tori’s name, but the hints were all there.
@Lil-Irish-Songbird-Told-Me
This tab didn’t close for two days.
Ripped this one and uploaded to a private playlist before it gets taken down.
Despite a packed calendar, I always reserve a 15-minute lunch at exactly 1.
And then, the one that hit me square in the chest:
@Lil-Irish-Songbird-Told-Me
Thousands of listeners, but there’s no contest for your biggest fan.
My grip tightened on my sister’s phone, heart pounding. Tori was listening. She went silent when she was overwhelmed, but she still cared.
And that changed everything.
I cleared the filter before handing back the phone, and my sister scrolled through more comments. “Some of these people have never been in love, and your music gives them hope of finding somebody who cares as much as you do.”
I pursed my lips, looking back up at the skyline. Was she listening right now?
Adriana nudged my knee. “So … can we turn on monetization? For them?”
Thousands of people tuned in daily to find hope … including the person I was singing for.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice hoarse. “Turn it on.”
Adriana pressed a few buttons, then made an obnoxious ‘ka-ching’ noise. “That’s it, bro. You’re now a professional musician. A YouTube influencer. A beacon of hope and romance.”
I shook my head with a coarse laugh. “Great. Just what I always wanted.”
Adriana grinned with a playful shove. “Just shut up and keep singing.”