It’s Aaron. Or, more specifically, it’s Aaron’s face, his name tagged in the headline: “Deadpool Thirsts For Campus Legend—#FindJessica Hits 500.” Underneath is a cropped photo of Aaron at last week’s party, mid-laugh, the red suit half-zipped to show his throat, a plastic cup dangling from two fingers.
There are already dozens of comments. I scroll too fast, skimming them like a coward. “Can confirm she was real, saw her at Pi Omega,” “Was she a ringer from out of town?” “If this is a marketing stunt, I’m buying whatever they’re selling.” Then: “Heard Deadpool made out with her in the closet, anyone got pics?” Followed by a barrage of low-grade GIFs and a few amateur memes, some of which are so badly rendered I actually want to die.
My thumb slips and I click through to the YouTube link. It’s a grainy video, clearly shot on someone’s phone, but the audio is crisp enough: Aaron standing on the steps outside Porter Hall, explaining the legend for a local news crew.
“She was just… unreal,” Aaron says, hair a little messy, eyes flickering everywhere but the camera. “I’ve never met anyone like her. I don’t even know her name, and now it’s driving me nuts.” The interviewer—a sophomore journalism major trying to sound like Anderson Cooper—asks if he expects to find “Jessica” before semester’s end. Aaron grins, but it’s a weird, off-center smile. “I hope so. If she’s out there, I want to talk to her.”
I clench my jaw so hard my molars groan. The words are all harmless, the kind of empty hero-quest language you use whenyou’re playing it for the crowd. But there’s something in the way he says it—the “I want to talk to her”—like a dare, or a plea.
My hand goes numb. I barely notice the textbook slipping from my other arm until it hits the floor, the thud echoing down the hallway with the finality of a closing casket. A few people look up, but most keep moving, a river in perpetual motion.
I lunge for the book, and as I do, my phone buzzes again. New message, this time just a link, no comment.
It’s Aaron’s own post.
My hands tremble so hard I almost drop the phone a second time. I tap the link, and it loads instantly, because of course it does.
It’s just a wall of text, not even a picture. The kind of thing you only write when you’re three drinks past self-consciousness, or when you really, truly need the world to see you.
Okay, this is embarrassing, but here goes: If anyone knows the identity of the girl in the Jessica Rabbit costume from Pi Omega’s party, please reach out. Not a joke. She was amazing, and I regret not asking her name. For what it’s worth: You left an impression, and I hope you see this.
The comments are relentless, but I barely read them. I stare at the post until my thumb cramps, until the white background burns itself onto my retinas. I don’t know if I want to laugh or throw up.
I find myself drifting, unmoored, stumbling toward the men’s room at the end of the hall. I slam into the last stall and lock it behind me, my body suddenly weightless, like the oxygen has been sucked from the air.
I sit on the closed toilet lid and put my head between my knees, breathing slow and shallow. The phone is still in my hand. I unlock it, re-reading the post. This time, I notice the tiny heart icon at the bottom, the “liked by” count already over a hundred.
I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the cool metal of the stall. I try to imagine telling the truth—just walking up to Aaron in lecture and saying, “Hi, I’m the Mystery Girl. Also, I’m a guy. Surprise!” The image is so absurd it almost feels plausible, but then I remember what it was like to be invisible, to have no one ever look twice, and I know I can’t do it.
I sit there until my ass goes numb and my heart rate approaches “imminent cardiac event.” When I finally get up, the mirror over the sinks shows a version of me that’s paler, sweatier, and possibly ten years older than the guy who walked in.
I splash water on my face and watch it bead on my glasses, then streak down my cheeks like I’m auditioning for a role in my own life. I dry off, swallow once, and put the mask back on.
The rest of the day is a blur of half-heard lectures, accidental eye contact, and a growing sense of unreality, like I’ve left my own timeline and am watching the true story play out somewhere just out of frame.
—ΠΩ—
Sara shows up at my door at 9:30 PM, armed with a thermos of chamomile and a plastic Walgreens bag.
“Sit,” she says, not waiting for me to argue. She plants me at the desk and flicks on my lamp, the light soft and warm, nothing like the prison yard LEDs overhead. She pours me a mug and hands it over, then sets the bag on my knee.
“What’s this?” I mumble.
She ignores me, rummages through the bag, and pulls out a travel pack of makeup remover wipes, a tiny bottle of cuticle oil, and a tube of Aveeno. “For the aftermath,” she says, voice soft.
I stare at the items, then at her. “I’m not even wearing—”
She cuts me off. “It’s for your hands. You’ve chewed them to ribbons.”
I look down. She’s right; the skin around my nails is raw, the cuticles shredded. I haven’t even noticed.
Sara soaks a cotton pad and grabs my right hand, dabbing at the worst spot. The lotion is cool, almost shockingly so, and for a second the sting is enough to chase away the panic.
She works in silence, her head bent close to mine, the smell of chamomile overlaying the sharp tang of isopropyl. She finishes the first hand, then switches to the other, kneading the lotion into my skin with surprising gentleness.
“This is getting out of hand,” she says finally. “You know that, right?”
I laugh, a short bark. “Tell that to the internet.”
