I switch to my other account and double-check that the scheduled post has gone out.
This profile is just for Leo.
Jas Manalo, my other alter ego—next time I’m dragged to church, I’ll be sure to thank my uncle-in-law for letting me borrow his last name.
The page loads. Right at the top is an image of my hip dips in a pair of boy shorts with my cybersigilism tattoo peeking out over the top. I never show my full face—beyond a flash of my septum piercing and silver ear climbers. But everything else is fair game, should my self-esteem permit.
Gone is the author who darkened his digital doorstep. No, Jas, the internet personality who shows a lot of skin on her feed, and wholoveshockey, slid into his DMs this morning.
I open my inbox and stare at the message I sent him as Jas.
Mina: You strike me as the type of guy whose guilty pleasure is listening to Pierce the Veil’s Collide With The Sky album. Specifically “Bulls in the Bronx” for the guitar solo. I’ll give you ten bucks if I’m wrong.
My stomach sinks seeing the empty space beneath my message. It’s so cringey. Mortifying, even. Nauseating. Terrible.Awful. I hate it. But what else could I have said? I tried not to keep my hopes up that he’d reply, or even see it. But I’ve stupidly let myself imagine that he’d respond with a marriage proposal.
Sighing, I throw my phone onto the bedside table and shove my head into my pillow with a groan. What has my life become? Writing isn’t working out, so I’m turning to... what? Investigative work (stalking)? Influencing? Hiding in my delusions?
My phone buzzes, and I whip my hand out without looking, slapping the wooden surface until my fingers wrap around the device. I peer up at it, blinking against the harsh light in the backdrop of darkness.
Another email. Another brand offer. Five hundred dollars for a single post—not bad, actually. That’s... really good.
Suck on that, Mother.
This is the second one I’ve received this week. It’s great to know I’m doing something right with Tala’s profile. It just means that I’m spending less time writing.
Maybe it’s for the better.
Either I’ve become a shittier writer, or my luck has run out.
I shove my phone beneath my pillow.
Whatever. I’ll reply tomorrow.
My delicate, oh so sensitive brain rattles in its cage to the tune of the blaring alarm. I whimper, burrowing deeper into the heavy blankets to seek out the warmth still radiating from the hot water bottle.
Based on the sound playing, this is alarm number six. The final boss that proves I’ve defeated the five other alarms in my sleep.
“Turn that shit off.” Joyce’s groggy voice makes it past the wall between our bedrooms.
Another day. I am not prepared physically, emotionally, spiritually, or sexually.
How unfortunate that I didn’t pass away in my sleep.
Yanking the duvet away, I reach for the bedside table, tapping my phone screen until I click the End button.
“Fuck this,” I mumble, dragging myself out of bed. I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes hard enough to see another astral plane before sliding my glasses on, then go through my morning routine: brush my teeth, experience existential dread, wash my face, contemplate existence, coffee, go through the five stages of grief over the state of the world, then station myself on the couch to wade through my notifications.
My responses to the emails and comments go out in the order they appear: supportive messages, collab offers, business inquiries, hateful comments that instantly get deleted and blocked.
My heart stops beating when I open Jas’s inbox to see Leo’s message at the very top.
I blink. Rub my eyes. Blink again.
Holy fuck?
Holy. Fuck.
He replied.
