The Ocean Just Gets Me, Chapter 5

The soft pulse of the signal thrums over the speakers, creeping through my head, sinking its hooks into my thoughts. I close my door, holding the bag Sam bought me, and slide out the smooth plastic box.

The microphone is real. It’s here. The possibilities coil tightly around me. I clutch the box to my chest, pacing like a caged animal. Breathe. This is what I need. This is what I wanted. But my fingers tremble with something too close to panic as I glance at the installation instructions.

I set the box on the desk, the blue logo stark against the wood. It sits next to the blinking lights on my laptop, next to the speakers, the sound repeating its endless loop, filling the air, filling me.

I’m not ready. Not yet.

Instead, I grab the mouse. My finger hovers over the Download OBS link. It stays there, frozen. I pull back before I click the button. I pull back before I can commit.

A deep breath, and another.

I need this. But the weight of it presses against me like I’m deep diving, and my shoulder jerks as the signal starts again. I close my eyes. Listen to the sound.

The signal is still here. The microphone is still here. I have time. I tell myself that.

I sit down. I stand up. My chair scrapes against the floor, and I drag it back to the desk, then away again, moving with restless energy.

The microphone waits. The box looms larger than the laptop, larger than me.

I pace the room, then grab the box again, pulling it toward me like a lifeline, pushing it away when I remember how much it cost.

Breathe. Just breathe.

The speakers buzz as the audio file loops.

I stare at the box, at the instructions, at the blinking lights, the glow of the screen. My movements quicken, then slow, then stop altogether.

Just a little longer. Just a few more minutes.

The signal hums, insistent and relentless.

I drop into my chair again, clutching the box to my chest like I’m drowning, like it’s the only thing keeping me afloat.

“I’ll never let go, Jack.” I say to myself.

My pulse races. The signal coils around me, wraps me up, pulls me back.

Tap, tap, tap. I drum my fingers on the desk, trying to drown out the signal. Trying to drown out my nerves.

“I’ll never let go, Jack!”

Breathe, I tell myself.

I need this.

I set it down. It taunts me, waiting.

I stand again, the wood creaking beneath my feet, my heart beating inside my chest.

Fidget, fidget. I grab the edge of my shirt, tugging at it with restless fingers, fidgeting where the hem has started to fray.

Time. I have time.

I pick up the squid keychain, trace its outline, run my thumb over its smooth surface until I can’t feel anything else.

I start to pace again, but my knees buckle. I fall into the chair, holding the box with both hands again. Holding my breath.

“I’ll never let go, Jack…” I say when I finally exhale.

Every thought, every movement, every breath is a betrayal keeping me from my goal.

The door creaks open. I jump, startled.

Dad stands there, framed in the doorway, frowning. “Can you turn off that awful noise?” he says, his voice cutting through the signal, cutting through me. “I’m trying to work.”

I don’t respond, my fingers tightening around the box, but I don’t let go. Not this time.

He shakes his head, muttering as he walks away. The door slams behind him.

The signal’s steady hum fills the air, fills me, and I’m alone with the microphone again.

I flinch, my heart leaping into my throat. I wait, the seconds stretching longer and longer, each one an eternity.

Finally, I am able to turn down the sound of the signal, and I close my eyes.

Time means nothing to me when I’m like this. Stuck. Frozen.

I sit perfectly still, waiting for sound from downstairs, hoping it breaks me from this paralysis.

Finally, a door slams. The rush of water in the kitchen sink. The clink of dishes against each other. Then, silence.

The quiet fills the house, expanding into every corner, pressing against the walls, against me.

But it’s enough… I tear into the box, the cardboard giving way with a sharp rip.

The microphone is smooth and cold in my hands; weighty, solid, and real. I line up the cables on my desk, their order comforting and familiar.

I plug in the USB, watching the drivers install, the blue light on the mic blinking like an eye opening. The signal pulses quietly in the background, but my thoughts are loud.

The download link hovers on the screen, waiting. I click it.

Software installation. A progress bar creeping across the monitor. Everything is sharp and deliberate. Every second feels too long, but also as if everything is rushing. I’m a raft floating towards a waterfall.

I strap on my headphones, tap the mic, watch the sound levels jump. My pulse takes the form of the rocks in the white water in my mind, excitement and dread twisting together.

This is what I need. This is what I wanted.

My voice is soft at first. Too soft. I touch my throat, unsure where the words are coming from.

“Hello?” I say. The sound crackles back at me, too real, too loud.

I pull back, the chair creaking under me. I touch my throat again, as if it doesn’t belong to me, as if it’s a stranger’s.

The volume dial is smooth under my fingers, and I turn it up, turn it down, testing the settings, testing myself. The mic picks up every sound.

My voice. My breathing.

I lean in, try again, my hands shaking.

“Testing?”

The microphone picks up everything. The rustle of my clothes, the scrape of my fingers against the desk, the chair creaking.

I pull off the headphones, my thoughts spinning, trying to escape the intensity of it.

Silence crashes over me, a wave breaking against the shore. I close my eyes, hold my breath.

A moment passes. I take a deep breath, then another.

This is what I need.

I put the headphones back on, the pressure of them pressing the sound against me. The mic picks up everything. The whisper of fabric, the click of the mouse, my own breathing, rhythmic and unsteady.

The sound is clearer now, but still too much. Still too real.

The signal loops in the background, keeping time with my thoughts as it has for weeks now.

I speak again. “Testing.” The word fills my ears, fills the room.

A pause, then another.

I open the software, click through the prompts, filling the room with new sound. Testing the limits of my fear, testing myself again.

°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆉𖦹*ੈ‧ 𓇼 ₊˚𓆝･:*.ೃ࿔⋆🐚‧°

The cursor blinks like a metronome, marking time I can’t measure. The streaming interface waits, its empty title box daring me to fill it. I hover over the keyboard, type: Exploring Ocean Realms + Chill Fish Facts. My fingers freeze, and I delete it.

I try to think of a better name for my stream, but can’t. I type it again: Exploring Ocean Realms + Chill Fish Facts

The words sit there, like strangers, unfamiliar and uncertain. I pause. My finger hangs over the Go Live button. A sharp breath, the anticipation swelling, then I click. My camera stays off, the game filling the screen as I clutch the desk and whisper, “Um, hello?”

My voice cracks, faint and tentative. The game map glows on the monitor, underwater worlds waiting to be explored. I clutch the edge of the desk, hold my breath, wait for something to happen.

The silence is endless.

“Hello?” I whisper again, trying to sound braver than I feel. “I guess… welcome to my stream.” The words stick in my throat like barbed hooks, strange and unwieldy.

No response. No feedback. No one’s watching yet.

I lean in, my voice thin and cautious, using it feels unfamiliar.

“I’m… Mai,” I say, the sound barely above a whisper. “This is my first stream.”

I stare at the game screen, at the colorful fish and coral, a digital ocean spreading out before me.

“Uh, thanks for being here,” I say to no one. My voice shakes, and I don’t know if it’s fear or excitement or some combination I can’t define.

The microphone picks up every sound, I remember. It amplifies my hesitation.

“If you’re watching the VOD, um, thanks for being here.” I repeat, not knowing what else to say. Not knowing how to fill the silence.

The silence presses in. I stumble again. “I hope you, uh, enjoy.”

I start up the game. I fill the gaps with empty phrases, placeholders for a confidence I don’t have yet.

An underwater realm fills the screen. It feels more real than the room around me. I lose myself in it, in the bright colors and smooth lines, in the small figures swimming endlessly across the map.

I start talking to distract myself. I start talking to survive the quiet.

“We’re exploring a reef today,” I say, my voice growing steadier as I focus on the game, as I focus on the facts that make sense to me.

“Coral structures are more complex than most people realize,” I say, my voice building strength and momentum. “The polyps live in colonies, each one responsible for its own tiny part of the reef.”

The music and ambience from the game has replaced the silence, but I keep talking. I push through the uncertainty, push through the doubt, like an anadromous fish pushing upstream. Except I’m not doing it to spawn…

I laugh to myself and then remember the microphone, picking up everything.

The game becomes my anchor.

I narrate my favorite facts, stringing them together like beads on a wire. “Reefs provide homes for thousands of species,” I say, and the words feel less strange now. “The Great Barrier Reef is so large, it can be seen from space.”

I drift into marine research, pulling the words from somewhere deep inside. I latch onto them, let them carry me forward, let them fill the void.

“This coral looks healthy,” I say, gesturing at the screen even though no one can see me. “They can survive for hundreds of years, but they’re very sensitive to changes in water temperature.”

The words begin to tumble out, my nerves dissolving into the narration.

My confidence builds with each fact.

I shift closer to the screen, trying to match the intensity of my focus to my voice. My eyes dart to the corner, to the viewer count sitting stubbornly at 0.

“This area looks like it’s thriving,” I say, pushing through the disappointment. “The diversity of life is incredible.”

The number stays at 0, but I keep talking. I keep narrating.

“The fish here use the reef for protection, for food.” My voice is stronger, gaining momentum. “Some species can only be found in certain reefs.”

The signal hums in my mind beneath my thoughts, a constant reminder of my purpose. A constant reminder of what I’m here for.

“I could spend hours just watching them,” I say, and my words sound almost natural now. Almost real.

Then I see it, out of the corner of my eye.

A flicker, a change, like the light shifting on a wave. Like a shadow moving beneath the surface.

I blink, unsure if it’s real, unsure if I’m imagining it.

But there it is.

The viewer count, has ticked from 0 to 1.

I go back over some of the facts I already mentioned, my breath catching mid-sentence about coral polyps. The viewer count goes up to 3, then 5.

It feels like something that can’t possibly be meant for me.

I hold my breath, waiting for them to vanish, but they stay. They stay.

A chat message appears: This is relaxing 🙂

I read it aloud. “Thank you,” I murmur, clutching the desk tighter, my heart racing. I blink at the message, unsure how to respond. The count hovers at 5, and I expect it to drop. I expect it to disappear. But it doesn’t. It stays there, steady.

My breath quickens, fingers fumbling on the mouse.

This is real, I think. This is actually real.

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do. So, I just play for a while, swimming around the reef.

I stare at the numbers, expecting them to disappear, but they stay. They climb. 6. 7. 8.

It doesn’t make sense. It feels like a dream, like a mistake.

A second message appears on the screen: I’m learning a lot, thanks!

“Uh, thank you,” I say again, the words barely a whisper, barely enough to hold my disbelief. “Thank you for being here.” My voice is shaky, amazed, a tentative smile breaking through my nerves.

The messages feel like something fragile and impossible, something precious.

More messages pop up, each one more confounding than the last. Each one more unbelievable.

I go back to narrating, mentioning that the reefs of the world are in danger from rising global temperatures.

The count climbs, and my breath catches with every jump.

I expect it to vanish. I expect to be alone.

But it stays. 10. 11. 12.

The silence I’ve been fighting dissolves into sound, into life, into something new.

People are really watching. People are really listening.

I can’t believe it. I can’t believe any of it.

My fingers shake. My heart shakes.

I close my eyes for a moment, trying to still myself. Trying to breathe.

This is real.

I open my eyes again. The numbers are still there, hovering bright and surreal like a crystal jellyfish.

The chat fills up with messages.

I’m going to subscribe!

This is so cool!

Just what I needed to relax.

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to say anything. I watch the words on the screen, amazed and unsteady.

It’s not a dream. It’s not a mistake.

I read them aloud. “Thanks for watching,” I say, and the words don’t feel hollow this time. The words don’t feel like they’ll shatter.

The chat fills up. The chat fills me up.

Wow, this is super interesting.

I love learning about the ocean.

It’s real. It’s actually real.

It’s happening.

Questions start to pour in as I continue to play. The chat floods with more messages than I can process, so I take them one at a time.

What’s your favorite sea creature?

Tell me about bioluminescence.

I start talking, my voice stronger than before. I fall into a rhythm, answering each prompt with growing confidence.

“I love anything with tentacles,” I say, almost laughing, the energy sparking like electricity. “But giant squids might be my favorite.”

They want to know about the ocean. They want to know what I know.

I lean closer, my voice brightening, each response more fluid, more real.

“Bioluminescence is the most amazing thing. Some deep-sea creatures produce their own light.” I describe the way it works, each sentence brighter with enthusiasm. “They use chemicals to glow in the dark. Some species flash to scare predators. Others stay lit like underwater stars.” My gestures are broad and sweeping, animated, as if the camera were on and I had an audience.

The chat fills up with attention, with curiosity, with more interest than I ever imagined. My words catch up with my breath, my confidence catching up with my doubt.

I answer each question, every one of them, the intensity of my focus matching the strength of my voice. I give them more than I knew I had.

I can’t stop talking. I don’t want to.

I pull up the reef map, pointing out my favorite spots, my favorite structures. I answer each prompt, marveling at the attention, at the reality of it.

“This is a symbiotic relationship,” I say, hovering over two fish on the map. “They help each other survive.” The explanation rolls off my tongue, smooth and practiced, like something I’ve rehearsed a thousand times. Like something I was always meant to say.

The silence I feared is nowhere to be found. It dissolves into questions and life and sound.

I answer everything.

Even my character seems to swim with more confidence than before.

It feels like freedom. It feels like nothing I’ve ever known.

My voice gains momentum, surprising me with its strength, its energy.

How long have you been into fish?

What’s the coolest ocean fact you know?

I give them answers. I give them myself.

They’re still listening. They’re still here.

My fear is banished for these few minutes.

I become myself.

°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𓆉𖦹*ੈ‧ 𓇼 ₊˚𓆝･:*.ೃ࿔⋆🐚‧°

Without warning, the game freezes up, yanking me back to self-awareness, cutting off my words. Cutting off my voice. I tap cables and fumble with the settings, my breath catching with renewed panic.

“Sorry, sorry about that,” I say, my voice wobbling. I refresh the game, trying to stay calm, trying to hold on to my newfound confidence. But it slips away, a fragile thing I can’t keep. The chat fills with concern, but I don’t know how to answer.

My shoulders slump, hands fidgeting with the mouse, with the cables. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to fix it.

The familiar doubt creeps back in, wrapping around my thoughts like a net, dragging me down, dragging me away.

I can’t believe I thought this would work. I can’t believe I thought I could do this.

“Sorry,” I say again, the word catching in my throat. “Sorry.”

The screen stays frozen. I try to keep my composure, but panic flares, wild and sharp, crowding out everything else.

My fingers are unsteady. My mind is unsteady.

I fumble with the settings, trying to fix everything I feel breaking. Trying to hold on to what I almost had.

Sorry, says the chat. Take your time. You got this!

But I don’t. I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to fix myself.

My voice wobbles, my hand wobbles on the mouse.

Sorry. Take your time. We’re not going anywhere.

I try to keep up with the chat, with my own panic, but the fear rushes back, overwhelming and suffocating.

I can’t do this. I can’t.

I tap the desk with trembling fingers. My breath is shallow, quick, unsure. I know the mic picks it all up… They can all hear me floundering.

“I think that’s all for today,” I say, my voice thin and breaking, breaking. “Thanks for… for watching, I guess.”

I click End Stream. Then I force restart the computer.

The silence floods my room, feeling both safe and achingly empty.

When the restart is finished, the browser reopens to the streaming page. In the hush, a whisper notification glows on my screen.

I really liked that stream.

Another notification and another.

You should do more.

Your voice is calming.

I stare at the messages, half-expecting them to vanish like everything else, like it was meant for someone else. But it stays. I glance at my subscriber count—13 new followers—and reread the message like it’s a secret meant just for me.

My heart quickens, disbelief melting into excitement. The words fill my head, fill the room, expanding into every corner.

Your voice is calming.

I really liked that stream.

I glance at the numbers again. 13 new followers. 13 people who want to hear what I have to say. It feels like a miracle, a small, precious miracle. It feels like something rare and beautiful, like a piece of myself I thought I lost when I quit college.

A smile still finds its way to my lips. It doesn’t feel like a mistake. It doesn’t feel like a dream.

Your voice is calming.

I really liked that stream.

The words loop through my thoughts, quiet and steady, building into something real.

I recall a teacher’s advice, a reminder from years ago. “You have to speak up, Mai. No one will hear you if you stay quiet.”

The words used to sting. But now they feel different. Now they feel true.

I type a brief “Thank you,” to each message, my fingers hesitant but sure. Each time I click Send, I feel more confident. The silence doesn’t feel empty this time. The silence feels alive.

I open the streaming interface and reschedule my next session. Deep Dive: Ocean Games + Weird Facts. I let myself believe I can do this. I let myself hope. I set the time and date, my pulse quickening, my heart quickening. I allow myself to believe I’ll go live again.

I turn the signal back on, turning it up, my dad’s annoyance feeling far away, now.

I open my notebook, the pages filled with sketches and diagrams. I flip through them, the paper whispering under my fingers, each page a memory, a promise.

I sketch the sea creatures I spoke about, my pencil moving with new energy, new life. The lines are sharp and precise, a reef drawing itself into existence.

Giant squid.

Coral polyps.

Creatures I know. Creatures I’m learning to know.

The sketches fill the page, fill my thoughts, turning private research into content.

I really liked that stream.

Downstairs, the dishes clink and the sink rushes and Mom continues her night, unaware of my secret triumph. Unaware of everything I almost gave up.

The ocean signal hums beneath it all, a steady beat, a second heartbeat.

A quiet song, keeping time.

I close my notebook and set my alarm, the hands of the clock circling back to the start, the start of something new.

Then I turn off the monitor and let the signal’s pulse carry me to sleep.

My voice is sure and strong as I whisper to the room. “I’ll do more.”

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