Walk into Linda Martinez’s locked bedroom in Nashville as 847 classmates share her photo. This isn’t advice—it’s you witnessing real teen cyberbullying unfold.

When the Screenshots Won’t Stop Coming

📍 Inglewood neighborhood, East Nashville, TN
🕐 Thursday, 4:47 PM, October
🌡️ 68°F, that weird October humidity

THE INVITATION

Hey, you.

Yeah, you reading this right now. I need you to come with me for about twenty minutes. I’m serious—put your phone on “Do Not Disturb,” grab something to drink, and let’s go.

We’re heading to 2614 Inglewood Drive. It’s one of those Nashville streets where the houses are close enough you can hear your neighbor’s TV through the walls, where the rent’s gone up 40% in three years, and where the lawns are half-cared-for because everyone’s working two jobs.

I’m The Seasoned Sage, and I got a text two hours ago from Rosie Martinez. She’s 42, works the evening shift at Vanderbilt Hospital in radiology, and she’s scared. Her daughter Linda—16, junior at Maplewood High—hasn’t come out of her room since she got home from school. Door locked. Music blasting. Won’t answer.

Rosie said: “Something’s wrong. Like, really wrong. She won’t talk to me. Can you come?”

So we’re going. You and me. Right now.

Are you ready? Good. Let’s walk up the driveway together.

THE ARRIVAL

The Martinez house is a narrow two-story with white siding that’s graying near the gutters. There’s a “Be Kind” yard sign next to a half-dead rosemary plant. Mike’s Toyota Tacoma is in the driveway—he’s home early from his HVAC job, which means Rosie called him too.

You can hear it before we even reach the porch: Olivia Rodrigo’s “get him back!” thumping from the second floor. Loud. Like, annoying-the-neighbors loud.

Beck, Linda’s 14-year-old brother, is sitting on the porch steps in his Titans hoodie, Chromebook balanced on his knees, AirPods in. He looks up when we approach.

BECK: (pulling out one earbud) “Oh, you’re the… the person Mom called?”

ME: “That’s me. The Seasoned Sage. This is my friend here.” (I gesture to you) “We’re just here to listen. What’s going on?”

BECK: (shrugs, but his jaw’s tight) “Linda’s losing it. Like, full meltdown mode. Mom and Dad are upstairs but she won’t open the door.”

YOU: (you probably want to ask something here)

BECK: (anticipating) “It’s about school. Like, online stuff. I don’t know all of it, but…” (he pulls up his phone, hesitates) “…it’s bad. Really bad.”

He shows us his Instagram. We can see a finsta account—@maplewood_teaspill—that has 847 followers. The latest post is a screenshot of text messages with “Linda Martinez” at the top. We don’t read them yet. Beck scrolls. There are comments. Sixty-three comments.

BECK: “She’s been crying since lunch. She didn’t even eat dinner last night.”

The front door opens. Rosie leans out—scrubs still on, her hair in a messy bun, eyes red-rimmed.

ROSIE: “Y’all come in. Please.”

INSIDE: THE LIVING ROOM

The living room smells like someone burned popcorn three hours ago. There’s a basket of unfolded laundry on the couch. Mike is standing by the stairs, arms crossed, still in his work cargo pants with the company logo. He’s a big guy—6’2″, broad shoulders—but right now he looks small.

MIKE: (voice low, frustrated) “She won’t talk to us. I asked her what happened, she screamed at me to ‘get the fuck out.’ My own daughter.”

ROSIE: (to us) “She never talks like that. Never.”

ME: “How long has this been building?”

ROSIE: “I don’t… maybe two weeks? She’s been quiet. Real quiet. I thought maybe boy drama, or grades, or—I don’t know, normal junior year stress, you know?”

MIKE: (cutting in) “Then today she comes home, slams the door, and we hear her sobbing. I tried to go in and she threw something at the door. Like, threw something.”

There’s a thud from upstairs. Something hitting a wall. We all look up.

BECK: (quietly) “She’s throwing stuff.”

YOU: (What would you say here? What would you ask?)

ME: “Can I try talking to her? Both of us?” (I look at you) “Sometimes it’s easier when it’s not your parents.”

Mike and Rosie exchange a look. Rosie nods.

ROSIE: “Second door on the left.”

UPSTAIRS: OUTSIDE LINDA’S DOOR

The hallway is narrow. There are school photos on the wall—Linda at 10, braces and a soccer uniform. Linda at 13, awkward bangs phase. Linda at 15, confident smile.

The music is so loud it’s vibrating the doorframe. I knock.

ME: (loud, over the music) “Linda? It’s not your parents. My name’s Sage. I’m here with a friend. We just want to listen. That’s it.”

Nothing.

ME: “Your mom asked us to come. You don’t have to open the door. But we’re gonna sit right here if that’s okay.”

I sit down, back against the wall opposite her door. I pat the floor next to me—you sit too.

We wait.

Thirty seconds. The music cuts off mid-song. Silence.

Then we hear it: sniffling. Movement. The lock clicks.

The door opens about four inches. We can see Linda’s face in the crack—half her face, actually. Her brown eyes are swollen, mascara smudged down to her jaw. Her hair’s in a knot on top of her head. She’s wearing an oversized Maplewood soccer hoodie and shorts.

LINDA: (voice hoarse) “Who are you?”

ME: “Someone who’s seen a lot of hurt. And this is my friend. We’re not here to fix anything. Just to sit with you if you want.”

LINDA: (looks at you) “Are you, like, a therapist or something?”

ME: “Nope. Just someone who listens. Can we come in? Or you can come out here. Whatever feels safer.”

Linda stares at us for a long moment. Then she opens the door wider and steps back.

LINDA: “Fine. But if you say anything like ‘it gets better’ I’m gonna lose my shit.”

INSIDE LINDA’S ROOM

It’s a typical teen girl’s room: string lights, a corkboard full of soccer photos and polaroids, homework scattered on a desk, a mirror with sticky notes of affirmations that now feel ironic. Her phone is face-down on the bed. There’s a dent in the wall where something hit it—a hairbrush is on the floor.

Linda sits on her bed, knees pulled to her chest. We sit on the floor. You’re right next to me. She’s looking at us like she’s deciding if we’re worth trusting.

ME: “Do you want to tell us what happened, or should I shut up and you can just sit there?”

LINDA: (laughs bitterly) “You sound like my mom trying to be cool.”

ME: “I am definitely not cool. But I am curious.”

Linda picks at her cuticles. Blood on one thumbnail where she’s picked too much.

LINDA: “How much do you know?”

ME: “Beck showed us the Instagram account. We didn’t read the details. But we saw there were a lot of comments.”

Linda’s face crumples. Fresh tears.

LINDA: (voice breaking) “Everyone’s seen it. Everyone.”

YOU: (You’d probably want to ask what “it” is)

LINDA: (wiping her nose with her sleeve) “Okay. Fine. So there’s this guy. Cameron. He’s a senior. We were talking for like three weeks. He seemed cool, you know? Like, actually funny. Not just trying to hit on me.”

She pauses. Takes a shaky breath.

LINDA: “We were Snapping. And he asked for a picture. Like, a picture. And I was stupid and I—” (voice drops to a whisper) “—I sent one. Just one. Like, I was in a sports bra and shorts. I wasn’t even naked. But you could see, like, my body and whatever.”

Oh no. We know where this is going.

LINDA: “He said it was just between us. He said I looked good. And I felt… I don’t know, like maybe someone actually saw me, you know?”

ME: (gently) “And he shared it.”

LINDA: (nods, tears streaming) “He sent it to the guys’ soccer group chat. And then someone screenshotted it and put it on that stupid @maplewood_teaspill account with my full name. And now everyone at school has seen it. Everyone.”

She pulls her phone over, unlocks it with a shaking hand, and shows us the post. We see it now:

@maplewood_teaspill: “Linda M. really thought she was doing something 😂 Cameron said she’s been DESPERATE for attention. Receipts below 👇”

The screenshot of her photo. Her face is visible. The comments are brutal:

@jess_parker03: “omg TRAGIC”
@brandon_tk: “bro she plays soccer and still built like that? 💀”
@madison.leigh: “attention seeker vibes”
@carlos_m99: “Cameron dodged a bullet fr”
@anon_user_847: “she literally asked for it lmaooo”

There are sixty-three comments like this. Sixty-three.

LINDA: (voice shaking with rage and shame) “I can’t go back to school. I can’t. Everyone’s talking about it. Girls I thought were my friends are commenting. My soccer teammates. Coach probably knows.”

ME: “Have you talked to anyone? School? Your parents about reporting Cameron?”

LINDA: (almost yelling) “Report him for WHAT? Everyone’s just gonna say I sent it, I’m the slut, I’m the one who—” (she stops, sobbing) “My mom’s gonna find out what I did. My dad’s gonna look at me different. Beck already knows, I can tell.”

YOU: (What would you say right now? Really think about it.)

There’s a knock on the door. It cracks open. Rosie.

ROSIE: “Baby? Can I come in?”

LINDA: (panicking) “Mom, no—”

But Rosie’s already in. She sees Linda’s face, sees the phone. She sits on the bed next to Linda and pulls her into a hug. Linda tries to pull away, but Rosie doesn’t let go.

ROSIE: (firm, quiet) “Whatever it is, I’m on your side. Whatever it is.”

LINDA: (muffled into Rosie’s shoulder) “You don’t know what I did.”

ROSIE: “I don’t care what you did. Tell me what they did to you.”

And Linda breaks. She sobs into her mother’s chest like she’s ten years old again. Rosie looks at us over Linda’s head—her eyes asking: What happened?

I gesture to the phone.

THE CONVERSATION: RAW & UNFILTERED

Mike appears in the doorway. Beck is behind him.

MIKE: “What’s going on?”

Rosie hands him the phone. We watch his face go from confused to horrified to furious in about five seconds.

MIKE: (voice dangerously quiet) “Who is Cameron?”

LINDA: (pulling away from Rosie) “Dad, don’t—”

MIKE: “WHO. IS. CAMERON.”

BECK: (from the doorway) “Cameron Holloway. He’s on varsity soccer. Total dickhead.”

MIKE: “I’m going to his house.”

ROSIE: “Mike, no—”

MIKE: “I’m going to his house and I’m talking to his parents and then I’m calling the cops because this is—this is—” (he looks at Linda) “—baby, this is illegal. He can’t just share pictures like that.”

LINDA: (panicking) “Dad, you’re gonna make it worse! Everyone’s gonna know you went crazy and then I’ll be the girl whose dad—”

ME: (interrupting) “Everyone. Stop. Just for a second.”

They all look at me. At us.

ME: “Linda, look at me. You’re sixteen. He’s eighteen, right?”

LINDA: (nods) “He turned eighteen in August.”

ME: “So legally, what he did is distribution of images of a minor. That’s a felony in Tennessee. Even if you sent it willingly—and by the way, you sending a photo in a private conversation is not consent for him to share it—he broke the law.”

MIKE: “See? Cops. Now.”

LINDA: “Dad, if you call the cops, my name’s gonna be in the report, people are gonna find out, it’s gonna be in the news—”

ROSIE: (to Mike) “She’s right. We need to think about this.”

BECK: (stepping fully into the room) “What if we just get the account taken down first?”

Everyone looks at Beck.

BECK: “Like, report the post to Instagram for sharing private images. Get it removed. Then deal with Cameron after?”

LINDA: “Beck, there are already screenshots. People have already saved it. Taking it down doesn’t—”

BECK: “But it stops new people from seeing it. And you can send a message to everyone who commented and tell them if they share it, they’re also breaking the law.”

ME: “Beck’s got a point. Linda, what do you want to happen right now? Not your dad, not your mom. You.”

LINDA: (quiet, defeated) “I want to disappear. I want to move schools. I want to not feel like I’m gonna throw up every time I think about Monday.”

YOU: (What would you offer here? What would you say?)

ROSIE: “Baby, you didn’t do anything wrong. You hear me? You trusted someone and he violated that trust. That’s on him.”

LINDA: “But I still sent it—”

ROSIE: “So what? You’re sixteen. He’s an adult. He knew better. And every kid who commented? They know better too.”

MIKE: (sitting down on the floor, suddenly deflated) “I don’t know what to do. I want to protect you and I don’t know how.”

And there it is. The raw truth. Parents don’t always have answers.

LINDA: (looking at her dad, tears streaming) “I just wanted someone to think I was pretty.”

MIKE: (voice breaking) “Mija, you are. You are. But not because of—” (gestures helplessly at the phone) “—not because of this.”

Silence. The kind that sits heavy.

ME: “Here’s what I know. Right now, in this moment, Linda’s not alone. She’s got her mom, her dad, her brother, me, my friend here (looking at you). That’s six people who see what happened and know it was wrong.”

ME: “Tomorrow, we figure out the next step. Maybe that’s reporting Cameron. Maybe that’s talking to the school counselor. Maybe that’s Linda deciding what justice looks like for her. But tonight? Tonight we sit with this.”

LINDA: “What if I go to school and everyone’s staring at me?”

BECK: “Then I’ll walk with you. And I’ll stare back.”

ROSIE: “And I’m calling the principal first thing tomorrow. Whether you want me to or not.”

LINDA: (looks at you) “What would you do? If you were me?”

YOU: (This is your moment. What would you tell her?)

THE REFLECTION: 6:23 PM

We’re back on the porch now. Linda’s still upstairs with her family. The sun’s setting—that orange-pink Nashville sky. Beck is sitting with us, scrolling through his phone.

BECK: “I reported the account. And I sent Cameron a message telling him I know a lawyer.” (he looks at us) “I don’t actually know a lawyer.”

ME: (small smile) “Doesn’t matter. He doesn’t know that.”

BECK: “Is she gonna be okay?”

ME: “I don’t know, Beck. Honestly. This stuff doesn’t just go away. But she’s got you. That counts for something.”

You and I walk down the driveway. The streetlights are starting to flicker on.

ME: (turning to you) “So. That was messy. Uncomfortable. Real. What are you thinking?”

YOU: (Take a minute. Really think about what you witnessed.)

ME: “Here’s what I want you to take from this: Linda’s pain is everywhere. In every school, every neighborhood. Kids are navigating stuff that didn’t exist twenty years ago. And a lot of the time? There’s no clean solution. No perfect ending.”

ME: “But showing up matters. Sitting in the mess matters. Believing survivors matters.”

ME: “Cameron Holloway still has that post up as of right now. The account’s still active. Linda still has to decide if she’s going to school Monday. And you and I? We just witnessed something true.”

ME: “That’s the point. Not to fix it. To witness it.”

EPILOGUE: WHAT HAPPENED NEXT

(Because real life continues)

The @maplewood_teaspill account was taken down 16 hours later after mass reporting
Linda stayed home from school Friday
Rosie and Mike met with the principal Monday morning
Cameron was suspended pending investigation
Three of Linda’s teammates sent her messages of support
Forty people did not
Linda started seeing a therapist the following week
She went back to school the Monday after
Some people stared. Some people whispered.
Beck walked with her to every class the first day.

This is still Linda’s story. It’s not over.

SAGE’S NOTE TO YOU:

You just spent twenty minutes in someone’s real life. How does that feel? Different than reading advice, right?

If you know a Linda—or if you are Linda—I see you. This happens. It’s happening right now, somewhere.

And if you’re a Cameron? You know what you did.

—The Seasoned Sage

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