Chapter 2: Fans Search for the Truth

Chloe Bennett and the other fansite girls tracked down the hospital using the diagnosis report, piling into Chloe’s battered Honda Civic—the one with my sticker on the bumper—and hit LA traffic like women on a mission.

They’d been with me for years, knowing everything from my oat milk latte order to my favorite In-N-Out meal (double-double animal style, no onions), and even which LAX bathroom stall I preferred.

Three years ago, when I’d flown abroad to disappear, they were there at Tom Bradley, waving me off. The terminal had been packed with fans holding a glittery banner: "SEE YOU SOON EMILY."

For a second, I’d wanted to rip off my hat and mask, show them my sunken cheeks and the dark circles I could no longer hide. But I couldn’t. They’d never get to pick me up again. I’d never see another California sunset from Griffith Observatory, never complain about LAX traffic, never eat a street taco on Sunset.

They rushed to the hospital, but Dr. Matthews—fed up with media swarms—had locked himself in his office. His secretary Gladys, a legend at the front desk, guarded the door like a bulldog.

He was the one who’d given me my death sentence. The one who held my hand as he told me the cancer had spread—lymph nodes, liver, everywhere. Months, not years.

How many times had I wished he’d say, "Sorry, Miss Rivers, we made a mistake—you’re not sick"? I’d dreamed of it through every chemo, every scan, every sleepless night in that sterile room.

The last thing he said to me was, "Miss Rivers, go see this world again." His hand on my shoulder, his eyes heavy with sadness.

...

Dr. Matthews was the kind of doctor who still made house calls, remembered every patient’s name, with walls covered in humanitarian awards.

He kept my illness under wraps, even using an alias—Sarah Johnson, the most generic name we could think of.

Even with the truth out, facing Chloe’s hopeful gaze, he just shook his head. HIPAA was sacred, even for the dead.

So the girls camped by his parking spot, fueled by vending machine coffee and stubbornness.

Dr. Matthews spotted them: "Which media outlet are you girls with? You’re persistent."

Chloe stood: "We’re Emily Rivers’ fans. Sorry to bother you, Dr. Matthews. We just want to know if Emily’s illness is real?" Her voice was tiny, like a kid asking about Santa.

One of the girls started a livestream, and within seconds, thousands of followers poured in, the chat scrolling too fast to read.

The idea was to find the truth together, but as soon as it started, trolls and onlookers swarmed in, mocking Chloe’s hope.

[Is this Emily Rivers fan brain-damaged from the shock? Can you not waste the doctor's precious time!]

[Requesting Emily Rivers' fan training tutorial—her fans are the most idiotic in the entire entertainment industry. The media said ages ago that Emily Rivers might be dead, they just don't believe it. Now even her personal account has posted it, and they're still in denial. Chasing stars—fangirls are really scary!]

[Emily Rivers died well, died great—those who betray our brother's true heart all have no good ending!]

Dr. Matthews looked at the girls and sighed, adjusting his glasses. "I’m sorry, as a doctor, I can’t share patient details, but Miss Rivers’ condition is real."

The words hit like a punch. One girl, barely sixteen, sobbed like a wounded animal.

The trolls took over the chat, celebrating like they’d won the Super Bowl.

Chloe murmured, "Sister... why didn’t she tell us?" Her grip on her phone was so tight her knuckles went white.

Maybe their grief moved Dr. Matthews. He checked for lurking reporters, then added quietly: "I asked Miss Rivers myself. She said you’d taken so many beautiful photos and videos of her over the years. She wanted you to remember her that way—forever."

I’d been in a hospital bed, chemo stripping me down to skin and bone, my lips cracked, arms bruised, eyes hollow. I looked nothing like the girl on magazine covers.

Most days, I drifted in and out of sleep. Sometimes I’d force myself to check my phone, vision blurring, just to see what the world was doing.

Nathan Quinn was still a star, smiling for cameras, Sophie Hayes wrapped around him at the Eiffel Tower. He looked untouched by pain.

While his fans gloated, mine never left my side online. They shielded me from the hate.

[Sister, we're waiting for you to come back to the country. No matter what movie you film then—even if you don't film—we'll still support you!]

[Sister, your seventh anniversary debut commemoration is coming soon. Will you come back then?]

[Em and Miss Emily Rivers will never be separated for all eternity. We'll always be your backing!]

A fangirl’s love is stubborn—purer than romance, more forgiving than family.

Total strangers willing to cross the country for you. Kids who’d skip lunch to buy your movie tickets, pull all-nighters to vote in online polls, learn Photoshop just to make pretty edits.