Later my manager told me he’d called my parents after the ambulance came. No answer, he said. Left messages.
Figured they’d show. They didn’t. Two days later, Cal and my lab partner showed up uninvited.
He’d heard through the grapevine. Carried a plastic bag of groceries and a pan of baked ziti. I hadn’t told him my address but he found me anyway.
You look like you’re disappearing, he said setting the food on the counter. I sat at the edge of my bed, legs folded hoodie pulled tight. I’m fine, I said.
He didn’t argue. Just handed me a plate and sat across from me in silence. I took a bite.
It was warm and real and I had to stop myself from crying over a forkful of noodles. That night I slept for 12 straight hours. The next morning I checked my phone.
Two messages from mom. The first, glad you’re doing okay. Can you send Soraya the name of that skincare brand you liked? The second, don’t forget to eat.
I deleted both. Later that week I saw Soraya post a video from a brunch spot in West Hollywood, her face lit by filtered sunlight captioned with, no better way to start the day. Thanks mom.
I stared at the screen for a long time before opening my banking app. My phone screen had a thin crack running across the lower corner splitting faces and text just enough to distort the illusion. Still, I scrolled.
Not because I wanted to but because I couldn’t not. Soraya had just posted a carousel from a rooftop lounge in West Hollywood. There were velvet chairs, gold rimmed cocktails, the kind of sunlight that made everything look expensive.
She was in a cream silk dress, tagged Dior hair, swept up in a way that probably cost more than my entire week’s groceries. The caption read, mom always knows exactly what I need. Brunch life.
LA style. Gifted, I locked my phone, set it face down on the floor and leaned back against the mattress. The ceiling above my bed was flaking paint.
The mini fridge hummed loudly in the corner. I hadn’t bought fresh vegetables in three weeks. A month ago, I had emailed mom asking if she could help cover the cost of a new anatomy atlas.
Mine was falling apart, pages missing, water stained from an overturned cup during an overnight cram session. She replied the next day, that’s a luxury iris. You’ll have to make do.
The same week Soraya posted about her new Balenciaga boots. Thanks to my amazing mom for always supporting the dream, I could still hear her voice sugary and effortless. I wasn’t angry, not exactly, just hollowed out.
Like whatever part of me had once fought to explain the imbalance had finally gone still. I wasn’t asking to be spoiled. I just wanted to stop rationing Tylenol.
I picked up my phone again. Soraya’s latest story was a short clip, her laughing hair blowing as she leaned over a balcony with the city spread beneath her like a stage. There was jazz playing softly in the background.
I watched it three times before muting the sound and opening the camera. The lighting in my room was too dim for anything to look good. Still, I took a picture, cracked nails, calloused fingers, the same gray hoodie I’d worn for four days.
No caption. I didn’t post it. Instead, I pulled up my contacts and scrolled until I found her name.
I hadn’t called Soraya in months. Most of our exchanges were one-line texts, always initiated by me. I stared at the screen thumb hovering before pressing the call button.
Soraya picked up on the second ring. Her voice was light breezy, just like I remembered. Iris, wow.
You never call. Everything okay. Yeah, I lied.
Just wanted to check in. It’s been a while. She laughed.
You miss me? Sure. My voice was thinner than I meant it to be. She started talking about a recent fashion shoot in Pasadena.
The stylist, she didn’t like the almond milk shortage at her favorite cafe. I let her go on pretending to listen while I counted the unopened bills on my desk. Eventually, I asked, how do you manage it all financially? L.A. isn’t cheap.
Oh, she said with a shrug I could hear through the phone. Mom handles it. She wires me $3,500 every month, sometimes more if I’ve got shoots or networking events.
My mouth went dry. That’s… great. Yeah, she said oblivious.
She just gets it, you know. She always says it’s about investing in the dream. Anyway, how are classes? I barely heard the rest of the conversation.
I nodded and said, uh-huh, and that sounds cool in all the right places. My face felt hot. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
When we hung up, I stared at my reflection in the window. I looked pale, smaller, like something had been peeled back. I opened a new tab and searched for flights.
The cheapest seat had two layovers and a six-hour delay, but it would get me to Chicago in time for Thanksgiving dinner. I clicked book now. Then I closed my laptop, slid the tray of bills aside, and started packing.
I didn’t know exactly what I was going to say when I got there, but I knew I couldn’t stay quiet anymore. And I knew the table I’d be sitting at would never feel the same again. We sat at the kitchen table, sunlight pouring through the same windows I used to press my spelling tests against for praise.
The meal was quiet, almost careful. Mom had made lentil soup and chicken salad, nothing extravagant, but more than I’d had in weeks. I forced down two bites before setting my fork aside.
Dad glanced up. You’ve lost weight. I shrugged.
I guess. You okay? Define okay, I said. He frowned.
What do you usually eat? Instant noodles, discounted sandwiches, leftovers from work if I’m lucky. He paused. Is the 2,000 not covering enough? I looked at him.