I mindlessly doom scroll, cursing myself for my inability to stop after a reasonable time. After a long day, it gives me just enough microbursts of endorphins to keep me going. I'm too tired to dedicate thirty minutes or an hour to following a full story. This is quick and sometimes entertaining, sometimes infuriating, but I feel connected without much commitment.

  I pause when I see Sheyla posted something. Her first post in months. It reminds me of how much I miss her. I click on her story and see it’s a repost from Constellation Records, where she works as an executive. The latest movie will feature an original song by an artist she discovered years ago. I could tell she was contractually obligated to repost this because she didn't add any of her own flair. Typical Sheyla.

  I look back at our text chain. It’s been months since we last spoke. I compose my text to her because I know she won’t see my “congrats

  

  How about,

  After twenty years of being friends, it's frustrating not being able to find the right words to start a conversation. We’ve pierced our nipples together, got the same birth control, and there was a time my mom questioned our sexuality. Those were the good old days before guys and adulting came crashing into our lives uninvited. Now, I can't even find the right words to start a conversation.

   if she answers me. I try not to be, but I can't help it.

  “Bej, you better not wake me up,” my sister warns as she loudly walks by with her old slippers, slapping the soles of her feet to give Boris a kiss on the forehead while he plays his games.

  “Good night to you, too.” I roll my eyes. "And you should really look into re-dying your hair. It looks super faded."

  She frowns at me as she touches her short braids of faded red hair. She walks away and slams the door to our room.

  Everyone has different schedules. My nephew, with his online gaming, doesn’t sleep, and my sister still hasn't figured out what time will help her not wake up tired. I look at the time. 9:14 p.m. I look at the TV that my nephew is hogging and decide maybe my sister is right. I should try to go to sleep a little earlier today, and maybe, just maybe, I wake up feeling refreshed tomorrow.

  

  

  I hear a knock. My sweet, small grandma, in her nightgown that she made herself years ago, stands there with her hands together. “Sorry! Are you going to shower? I just need to use the bathroom before you do, that way you don’t have to rush.”

  “Of course, Abuelita,” I step out and finish brushing my teeth in the kitchen sink.

  I see Sheyla is typing something, but then it stops. My grandma comes back out, and I shower. When I step back out, Sheyla still hasn’t texted. My eyes keep glancing at my phone as I dry my hair. Lots of memes are being shared by my other friends, but I can't help making sure my text went through to Sheyla. I hate it when people don't answer me. It makes me feel like I'm not important enough, no matter how silly that sounds. Yes, therapy has helped me understand that people are busy, a lot can happen that I'm not seeing, but it's a little itch I'm working on getting rid of.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  

  I try to climb into my bunk bed like a toddler. It’s so embarrassing, but it’s the only way we can all fit in this house. We bought this bunk bed six years ago when things started going bad with my sister and her ex. Boris would stay with us much more often, under the guise of a fun sleepover. Now that his dad has a restraining order and they have moved back in until they find another place, he doesn’t use it anymore. He sleeps in the living room for the bigger TV, and my sister sleeps on the bottom bunk. I try not to move the bed as I climb up, but it’s impossible. Even though I'm short, I'm still a grown, curvy woman. The half-assed job we did to build it together doesn’t help the squeaky frame either. My sister groans as she shifts below.

  It’s a miracle we all get some degree of privacy in here. The day Sheyla took me to get my first vibrator, promising me that it would help me get over my ex, I didn’t know when I’d be able to use it. That was part of my hesitation in buying it. The other part was feeling guilty about pleasuring myself on my own terms. I’ve been taught that’s bad for reasons I can’t explain, and I believed it for a long time. In a random act of the universe taking pity on me, everyone was out doing something the next day, and I had the time to try it right before my ex came over to try and work something out for the fiftieth time. Sheyla was right, though. That tiny, silent vibrator somehow helped me realize I no longer needed him. That was seven years ago, and sometimes I wonder what it would have been like if I hadn’t tried the vibrator.

  There’s an endless list my family has for me to explain my singleness. My ex was an idiot, but at least I could say someone wanted me. I could partake in all the conversations about the annoying things my partner did, or the romantic gestures he made that I would then exaggerate to make him look better. Maybe it’s luck, maybe it’s confidence, maybe it’s a mix of both.

  I don’t know how Sheyla does it. She’s the most introverted person I know, yet she’s never without a hot guy next to her. The last one I knew of was really nice; he almost seemed fake.

  

  

  Sheyla knows all the best brunch spots. I know it’s silly, but every time I go out with her, I secretly hope this is the time I have my meet-cute with my soulmate. She knows all the places famous people go. I daydream about being that ordinary person that a celebrity falls for, even though I know I wouldn't be able to be with one. It's too much pressure, but a nice fantasy to get lost in sometimes.

  As I drift off, hoping I can sleep at least six hours tonight, I think about that mystery man from work—the delivery man. How sexy would it be to date someone who all the others want again? It would take me back to my prime in high school. It felt great. Being the prom king and queen was by far the best high I’ve ever had. I wish I could relive those days sometimes.

  Those arms from my daydream wrap themselves around me again. That embrace feels like a drug, releasing all the dopamine in my brain and giving me a sense of euphoria. A face starts to form. My excitement peaks. He has big, dreamy eyes, and the color keeps changing. They’re a bright red at first, but then they settle into a hazel brown. His lips are full, but not too full, definitely not bigger than mine. They crease into a flirtatious smile that awakens a heat in me I haven’t felt in a while. A cute dimple forms on his stubbled cheek. My fingers run freely through his black hair, which is short and messy, but well-maintained. His arms are nice and strong, holding me around my waist as I stare into his dreamy eyes. I can see some muscle under the gray T-shirt he’s wearing. He has nice abs I can run my fingers on and feel the ridges. That invites me to go even lower. I like what I find. His legs show how much he runs daily. I can walk down the street knowing that people look at us, wishing they were me. I like that.

  I would do anything to make this a reality. I don’t ever want to wake up.