Page 17 of Stream Heat
THANK YOU FINALLY SOMEONE WITH SENSE
this!!! medical emergencies aren’t content!!!
queen behavior calling this out
“Second,” Callie went on, tugging something into frame, “I need to be honest with you all about something.”
She held up a box of suppressant patches. I knew the kind. Technically legal. Still a risk.
“I’ve been using these since I was sixteen. I keep them hidden in tampon boxes because I’m terrified someone will find them and use them against me.”
I stopped breathing for a second. Callie’d never discussed her designation, not even in the rumor rounds.
“I’m an Omega,” she said. Just like that. “I’ve never hidden it officially, but I’ve never emphasized it either, because I’ve seen what happens to streamers who do.”
Her eyes met the camera dead on. “The gaming and streaming world is brutal to Omegas. We get reduced to our biology. Our skills are questioned. Our achievements are minimized. Our content is sexualized regardless of what it actually is.”
The chat poured out with heart-emotes, shared solidarity, confessions.
“So while I’ve never taken suppressants like the ones Kara was likely on, I understand the pressure that would drive someone to that point. The desperate need to be seen for your talent rather than your designation.”
She cracked a gum bubble, the tiniest flicker of her brand breaking through before she sobered again.
“And let me be clear about something else, I've seen some streamers,” the pause and tone made it obvious who she meant, “using this situation to gain clout while pretending to be concerned. That’s gross, babe. Super gross.”
For the first time all day, I almost smiled.
“Some of you are asking why I care about this when Kara and I aren’t even friends. Here’s why, because it could have been me. It could have been any Omega streamer who’s just trying to exist in this space without being reduced to their biology.”
She dragged on a strawberry vape. Stress flavor, stress habits. I got it, now.
“What happened to Kara was a medical emergency caused by an industry that pushes people to dangerous extremes to be marketable. Instead of tearing her apart, we should be asking why she felt she needed those suppressants in the first place.”
Her chat was a tidal wave of hearts. Support. Actual, honest support.
“So here’s what we’re not going to do, besties. We’re not going to share those clips. We’re not going to speculate about her personal life. We’re not going to reduce her entire career to one medical incident.”
She leaned back, exhaustion painting dark circles under her eyes.
“What we are going to do is have a real conversation about designation discrimination in content creation. About the pressure to conform to marketable identities. About the way management companies exploit young streamers.”
It was the opposite of everything Stella had done. For the next twenty minutes, Callie went point by point, knocking down every cruel narrative about me. Every lie. She corrected, explained, contextualized. She called out Stella’s hypocrisy, called out the viewers for eating this up like wolves on raw meat. She didn’t sugarcoat my choices, but she made it clear the real monster was the industry.
“In conclusion,” Callie said, “Kara Quinn deserves privacy and compassion right now. And when, if, she chooses to return to content creation, she deserves to be judged on her skills, not her designation.”
The tone softened. “And Kara, if you’re watching this, which you probably are because we all obsessively monitor what people say about us online, you’re not alone. My DMs are open if you need someone who gets it.”
The stream ended. I stared at the screen, silent except for the tick of my pulse and the acid taste in my mouth. I’d expected nothing. Instead, I got more honest support in ten minutes than in eight years of streaming.
My phone buzzed. A DM from Callie:
Hey. I don’t know if you saw it, but if you watched my stream, I meant what I said. Been there, not quite the same way, but close enough. If you need someone to talk to who won't sell the conversation to Drama Alert, I'm here.
I didn’t even realize I was crying until I dropped the phone on my lap, hands shaking so badly it nearly bounced to the floor. Before I could answer, another wave of withdrawal hit. This time it was stabbing pain, the urge to retch, whole body flashing cold and then burning again.
I barely made the toilet in time. The taste of bile was sharp, tearing at my throat.
When the shivering stopped, I crawled back, picked up my phone, and punched in the unlock code with numb fingers. The suppressants I’d managed to order wouldn’t get here before tomorrow at the earliest, and I couldn’t keep anything down. I didn’t want to think about what that meant. But part of me had already accepted the truth that I didn’t want to acknowledge. I knew if I didn’t get help soon, I’d end up in a hospital, or worse.
