A Family Porch in Nashville, a Phone Notification, and the Reality of Teen Cyberbullying
A dialogue-driven story that places you inside a Nashville family confronting teen cyberbullying—and the quiet anxiety social media creates.
By: The Seasoned Sage
Episode: “Before You Even Look”
Location: 34th Street, West End, Nashville (two blocks from Richland Park)
Pain Point: Cyberbullying
Reader Role: A familiar stranger — noticed, remembered, not neutral
ACT 0 — THE INVITATION
You don’t have to come.
That’s important to say first.
Some evenings aren’t asking for witnesses — they’re asking for privacy.
Tonight asked anyway.
So if you’re coming, come gently.
We’re heading to a white house on 34th Street. The one with the dented mailbox that still says Go Vols even though no one inside watches football anymore.
ACT 1 — ARRIVAL
It’s 6:51 PM.
The bells from West End United Methodist just rang — late, like always. Richland Park smells faintly like cut grass and sunscreen drifting over the fence.
Cicadas are loud enough to feel personal.
Mike’s porch light is already on. Not because it’s dark — because Rosie forgets to turn it on later.
Linda sits on the steps where the concrete is chipped. Hoodie sleeves pulled past her palms despite the heat. Her Vans are scuffed at the toes like she drags her feet when she walks.
Her phone lies face down.
That detail matters.
She notices you noticing it.
She doesn’t smile.
ACT 2 — A BAD INTRODUCTION (THE SAGE FALTERS)
MIKE:
Hey. You made it.
He says it like you were expected — even though you weren’t.
I should say something smooth here. I don’t.
Instead, I gesture vaguely at the porch.
ME:
Mind if we sit?
Linda snorts. Quiet.
LINDA:
It’s a porch.
Fair.
I deserved that.
ACT 3 — THE PAIN ARRIVES FIRST
Nobody asks the Big Question.
The cicadas keep screaming. Somewhere on 35th Street, a car radio plays old country — the sad kind with too much fiddle.
Linda’s phone vibrates.
Not rings. Vibrates.
Her knee bounces once. Stops.
Like she caught herself being human.
She doesn’t touch the phone.
ROSIE:
Is that—
Linda shakes her head before Rosie finishes.
LINDA:
Doesn’t matter.
There it is.
That phrase again.
Doesn’t matter.
Pain’s favorite disguise.
ACT 4 — WHAT SHE WON’T SAY
Mike clears his throat.
MIKE:
Your mom and I were thinking maybe—
Linda looks at him.
Not angry.
Resigned.
LINDA:
Dad. Please don’t do the thing.
Mike freezes.
You can tell — he doesn’t know what the thing is, but he knows he’s about to do it anyway.
MIKE:
I just think—
LINDA:
—That I should ignore it, block it, rise above it, remember people are jealous?
Silence.
Rosie closes her eyes.
She’s heard this speech too.
ACT 5 — THE UNCOMFORTABLE READER MOMENT
I look at you.
Not gently this time.
ME:
You’re probably wondering if she’s exaggerating.
That lands.
Because part of you was.
Mike was.
I was, too — earlier than I want to admit.
Linda sees your face change.
She notices that.
That matters.
ACT 6 — THE MESSAGE THAT STAYS UNREAD
Linda finally flips the phone over.
She doesn’t open anything.
Just stares at the lock screen.
LINDA:
It’s always right before I look.
She taps her stomach.
LINDA:
Like a drop. Like when the roller coaster tips but hasn’t fallen yet.
Rosie sits beside her.
Too close at first.
Linda stiffens.
Rosie shifts back an inch.
That inch is love learning.
ACT 7 — BECK MAKES IT WORSE
Beck comes out holding a glass of sweet tea.
BECK:
They posted the voice clip again.
Linda spins around.
LINDA:
Why would you say that?
Beck shrugs.
BECK:
Because pretending doesn’t make it smaller.
That’s when Linda breaks.
Not crying.
Laughing.
Sharp. Bitter.
LINDA:
They slowed it down. Made me sound stupid.
She swallows.
LINDA:
I didn’t even know someone recorded me.
That’s the line that sticks.
Consent violated quietly.
ACT 8 — THE READER FAILS HARDER
You speak again.
You mean well.
YOU:
Why don’t you just stay off social media for a while?
The porch goes still.
Cicadas.
Gone.
Linda looks directly at you.
Not rude.
Not emotional.
Worse.
Honest.
LINDA:
Because that’s where my friends are.
Pause.
LINDA:
And because they shouldn’t get to take that too.
That one will haunt you later.
Good.
ACT 9 — THE SAGE ADMITS FAULT
I rub my hands together.
Stalling.
ME:
I want to say something useful.
I don’t have it.
Linda looks at me.
Waiting.
I shake my head.
ME:
I thought I did earlier.
I didn’t.
That admission shifts the air.
Adults stop performing.
ACT 10 — THE ONLY THING THAT WORKS (TEMPORARILY)
Beck sits beside Linda.
Doesn’t touch her.
BECK:
Your art account still up?
Linda nods.
BECK:
Post tonight.
LINDA:
Why?
Beck shrugs.
BECK:
Because they don’t get to be the last voice.
Not a solution.
An experiment.
Linda thinks.
Then flips her phone face down again.
Deliberate.
ACT 11 — AFTER YOU LEAVE
You say goodbye.
Linda watches you go.
Later that night, she posts a sketch. Nothing about the bullying.
Just a hand holding a phone.
No caption.
By morning, there are eleven likes.
Three are from people she didn’t expect.
One is from a girl who never defended her.
That doesn’t fix anything.
But it complicates the story.
ACT 12 — THE SAGE’S DISTILLATION (UNSETTLING)
I stop you at the sidewalk.
I don’t sound wise now.
Just tired.
ME:
Here’s the part no one tells you:
Pain doesn’t need you to understand it.
It needs you to stop negotiating whether it’s real.
Witnessing isn’t passive.
It costs you something.
Tonight — it should.
