"I didn't mean to go viral without my panties on. But here we are."
Fatima Fannel woke up to her phone buzzing like it was trying to vibrate off the nightstand and escape. She groaned, slapping at the surface until she found the source of the noise—her iPhone 14, which had somehow migrated from her hand to under her pillow overnight.
She blinked through sleep-fogged eyes and squinted at the screen.
Instagram notification: 236 new followers. Twitter notification: 89 mentions. TikTok: trending video with 1.2M views.
"What the hell?" Fatima mumbled, dragging herself upright. Her hair was in a messy bun that had half-fallen apart during the night, and her tank top had ridden up to just below her bra line.
She tapped into TikTok first. The video wasn't hers—but it featured her.
It was footage from yesterday's brunch at Coco & Spice , a cozy little café in Harlem known for its soul food brunches and strong mojitos. Fatima remembered the moment clearly: she'd been laughing at something her best friend Jada said, mouth open wide, head thrown back, her full lips stretched into a grin so big it reached her eyes.
And yes, she was wearing a long, flowy skirt that hugged her hips before cascading down to her calves. But the angle caught just enough to show—clearly—that there was no underwear beneath.
The caption read:
"She doesn't need lace to feel free." #FreeFatima
Below it, comments were flying in faster than she could read them.
"Queen of confidence!" "This woman is everything!" "No shame, all grace." "Where do I buy this energy?!"
Fatima's stomach dropped.
"Oh. My. God."
She scrolled up to see who posted it. Of course. Jada.
Her best friend had taken the video after Fatima made a joke about not wearing underwear because it "chafed her joy."
Jada had laughed, recorded, and then—without telling her—posted it with the hashtag #FreeFatima.
Fatima stared at the screen, her heart thudding in her chest. Not out of embarrassment, but out of sheer disbelief that her private philosophy on comfort had gone public.
She grabbed her phone and typed out a text to Jada:
Fatima: You did WHAT?!?!
Within seconds, her phone rang. Jada.
"Before you scream, hear me out," Jada said as soon as Fatima picked up.
"I'm going to kill you," Fatima hissed, pulling herself out of bed and walking barefoot across the cool hardwood floor to her closet.
"No, you won't," Jada replied smugly. "Because you're famous now."
Fatima rolled her eyes and opened her laptop, logging into Instagram. Her DMs were blowing up.
Brand deals. Interview requests. Fan art. People tagging her in memes. Someone even made a T-shirt that said:
"What Would Fatima Do?"
"I can't believe you did this," Fatima said again, though her voice had softened slightly.
"You were being too modest," Jada shot back. "You always say, 'Why hide what makes you happy?' So I helped you live your truth."
Fatima sighed. That was true. She did say that. Often.
She walked into the bathroom, flicked on the light, and looked at herself in the mirror.
She was beautiful. There was no doubt about that. Chocolate skin, deep brown eyes, a nose ring she got on a whim last summer, and curves that made men stop mid-sentence when she walked into a room.
But more than anything, she was unapologetically herself.
She didn't wear makeup every day. She didn't shave her legs religiously. And she hadn't worn underwear since college, when she realized how much more comfortable she felt without it.
It started as a rebellion against discomfort—against the constant digging waistbands, the itchy tags, the way some fabrics clung like they were trying to control her.
Now it was a lifestyle.
Freedom.
And apparently, the world wanted to know more.
---
A Day Like Any Other (Until It Wasn't)
By noon, Fatima was still in her robe, sitting cross-legged on her couch, scrolling through the chaos her life had become.
She worked part-time at a boutique called Velvet Curve , a plus-size fashion shop run by two queer Black women who were more like mentors than bosses. She loved the job—it gave her a chance to style real women, not mannequins. She also freelanced as a content creator on the side, mostly doing reviews of plus-sized fashion brands and skincare products.
But nothing had prepared her for this kind of attention.
She checked her email. Subject lines screamed things like:
"Vogue wants to feature you in our next issue!"
"Can we interview you about your body-positive journey?"
"Collaboration opportunity: $5K flat fee."
Fatima leaned back, stunned.
"This is insane," she muttered.
Jada burst into her apartment without knocking, holding up her phone.
"You're trending!"
Fatima glared at her. "You better have brought snacks."
Jada grinned and tossed a bag of sour gummy worms onto the coffee table.
"I figured you'd need sugar to deal with your sudden fame."
Fatima grabbed the bag and tore it open. "You realize I could lose my job over this, right?"
"Nah," Jada said confidently. "If anything, your boss will want to cash in on this. You're a brand now, girl."
Fatima chewed thoughtfully.
Maybe she was.
---
Then Came the DMs
As the hours passed, the messages got more intense.
Some were supportive. Some were hateful. A few were… flirtatious.
One message stood out.
@kaimonroe: Still going commando, or have you started wearing regrets?
Fatima froze.
Kai Monroe.
The name alone made her stomach twist.
They'd dated two years ago. He was a rising star in the fashion world—half Korean, half white, effortlessly charming, and devastatingly handsome. They met at a party hosted by one of his designers. He fell for her wit. She fell for his hands.
He used to touch her like she was precious.
And then he vanished.
Just like that.
No explanation. No goodbye.
Only silence.
Fatima closed the DM without responding.
Not yet.
---
Back to Work
Later that afternoon, Fatima reluctantly left her apartment and headed to Velvet Curve . She wore high-waisted jeans, a cropped hoodie, and chunky sneakers. For once, she actually put on underwear—just in case.
When she walked into the boutique, everyone stopped talking.
"Uh… hey," she said, waving awkwardly.
"Girl," said Tasha, one of her coworkers. "You're everywhere."
Fatima groaned. "Don't remind me."
"Don't worry," said Laila, one of the owners. "We're proud of you."
"And we're making merch," added Priya, holding up a T-shirt that read:
#FreeFatima – Confidence Has Curves
Fatima laughed. "I'm gonna regret this forever, aren't I?"
"Only if you don't lean into it," Priya said. "You've got a movement here, Fatima. Might as well monetize it."
Fatima sat behind the counter and began folding clothes, but her mind kept drifting back to Kai's message.
Why now?
Why after two years?
---
Unexpected Encounter
Around 5 PM, the bell above the door chimed.
Fatima looked up—and nearly dropped the dress she was holding.
There he was.
Kai Monroe.
In the flesh.
He looked even better than she remembered. Wavy dark hair, sharp jawline, those same hazel eyes that used to make her forget how to breathe.
He smiled at her.
"Still going commando?" he asked, repeating his DM.
Fatima crossed her arms. "Still showing up uninvited?"
He chuckled. "Same old Fatima."
She narrowed her eyes. "What do you want, Kai?"
"To talk," he said simply. "Privately."
Fatima glanced at Tasha and Laila, who were watching them with obvious interest.
"Five minutes," she said.
They stepped outside, standing near the curb where the city buzzed around them.
"I saw the video," Kai said.
"Obviously."
"I missed you."
Fatima scoffed. "That's rich. You disappeared without a word."
"I had to," he said softly.
"Bullshit."
Kai looked pained. "My father threatened to ruin you if I didn't walk away."
Fatima blinked. "Excuse me?"
"My family owns Monroe Group. You think they wanted me dating a plus-size model who didn't fit their image?"
"They told me you weren't serious about me," Fatima whispered. "That I was just a phase."
Kai shook his head. "I never said that."
Fatima's heart pounded. Could it be true?
"Why come back now?" she asked.
"Because I saw your video," he said. "And I realized… I never stopped loving you."
Fatima didn't respond immediately. Instead, she studied him, searching for any sign of deception.
Finally, she said, "You've got five more minutes. Then I'm going back to work."
Kai nodded. "Fair enough."
---
Enter Dante Reyes
An hour later, Fatima was back inside, helping a customer pick out a dress for a bachelorette party. She was halfway through explaining the benefits of stretch fabric when another customer walked in.
He was tall, with caramel-colored skin, curly black hair, and a beard that looked like it belonged in a Renaissance painting.
He smiled at her.
"Hi," he said. "I'm looking for something special."
Fatima raised an eyebrow. "Special how?"
"For someone special," he said smoothly. "I heard this place has the best stylists in the city."
Fatima smirked. "Flattery will get you far."
He chuckled. "Good to know."
His name was Dante Reyes. He was an artist—painter, sculptor, occasional muralist. He showed her a photo on his phone of a piece he'd done: a woman painted in bold colors, confident stance, no shame.
Fatima liked it.
"So what are you looking for?" she asked.
"A gift," he said. "For a muse."
Fatima raised an eyebrow. "Is that code for 'I want to impress a date'?"
"More like… I want to find someone who inspires me the way you inspire people."
Fatima blinked.
Damn.
That was smooth.
And oddly sweet.
---
Two Men, One Woman, Zero Chill
By the end of the day, Fatima had exchanged numbers with Dante and received a follow-up text from Kai.
Kai: Can I take you to dinner tonight?
Dante: Want to model for my next piece?
Fatima stared at both messages.
She was only one woman.
And already, her life was spinning out of control.
---
Fatima Moments
Fatima Fannel went to bed that night with a full inbox, a racing heart, and a feeling she hadn't felt in a long time.
Possibility.
She didn't know what tomorrow would bring.
But she knew one thing for sure:
She was done hiding.
Even if the world was watching.