The bluish light from the monitor is the only thing illuminating my private sanctuary – also known as my bedroom. Friday night. Outside, I imagine the city's buzz, normal people going out, laughing, maybe even... touching other people. I shudder just thinking about it. Inside, the only sound is the low hum of my PC and the nervous clicking of my own mouse as I endlessly scroll through a social media feed.
My stomach rumbles softly, reminding me that my last decent meal was… well, when was it again? Does that packet of instant ramen from last night count as a 'meal'? Maybe. The desk next to the keyboard is a graveyard of wrappers and a mug with the dregs of cold coffee from this morning. Or was it yesterday morning? Details, Beatriz, details.
I scroll past a photo of a group of girls smiling, colorful drinks in hand, at some trendy bar. They look about my age. They look… happy. And clean. And, of course, they all seem to have curves in the right places, not like my awkward, stick-figure physique. I quickly look away. Comparing yourself is just asking for pain, and my quota of self-inflicted suffering is already hitting its limit today.
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the dark monitor screen as I scroll down the page. The image doesn't lie. I'm scrawny, almost flat-chested – one of those bodies it seems puberty forgot to properly visit. The gray hoodie, my official uniform of seclusion, hides the lack of shape, but I know what's underneath. My shoulders are bony beneath the thick fabric.
My black hair, which might have been shiny once, is tied up in something that was once a bun, now more closely resembling a greasy rat's nest on the nape of my neck. A few stray strands stick to my forehead and temples. Beneath it, my pale face sports dark circles so deep they look painted on, dark valleys under eyes that are, ironically, a bright, vivid blue – perhaps the only feature that stands out from my generally washed-out appearance. But even the vibrant color can't disguise the perpetual expression of exhaustion and an almost palpable disdain for existence. My "I've already given up" face.
The hoodie could probably walk itself to the washing machine by now, it's so worn and dirty. If only it would take the rest of the pile of clothes on the floor with it... I sigh, the air leaving my lungs heavily. I go back to scrolling the feed, trying to ignore the reflection of the tired, disheveled girl staring back at me from the screen.
Another click. A stupid meme about cats. I let out a small snort, almost a laugh. Okay, that's more my speed. Another scroll. Nothing. No one talking to me, no interesting notifications. Just other people's lives looking annoyingly vibrant while mine feels like a looping GIF of someone staring at a screen.
The hunger pangs hit again. Pizza? Burger? The sacred Friday night food delivery ritual, the only social event of my weekend, where I exchange three monosyllabic words with the delivery person while avoiding eye contact. Yeah, I guess it'll be pizza. I open a new tab, the white glare blinding me for a second. The smell of the room – a mix of stale air, dust, and that ghost of instant ramen – seems to get stronger. I need to open the window. Later. Maybe.
Now, the most important decision of the night: which pizza flavor goes best with watching anime until I fall asleep and pretending loneliness doesn't bother me that much? Pepperoni, always pepperoni. It's a classic, like my ability to avoid any kind of personal development.
Okay, the decision was made: pepperoni. I click "Confirm Order," the relief of having overcome this micro-task mixing with the slight guilt of spending the money my parents give me on another glorified box of grease. Now, just have to wait. I go back to scrolling the feed, but my mind is already on the next obstacle: the delivery.
Wait. My stomach freezes, not from hunger, but from pure panic. Today is Friday. My parents said they were going… out. Dinner out with some of their boring friends. They're not home. That means… oh, crap. I. I'll have to answer the door.
The intercom buzzes, a shrill sound that cuts through the apartment's silence like an air raid siren. I jump in my chair, my heart pounding as if I'd seen Slenderman himself at the window. Calm down, Bia, it's just the pizza. But my body isn't listening. My hands start to get cold and sweaty.
Getting out of the chair is a complex operation. My legs are kind of numb, protesting the change of state. I nearly trip over the pile of manga next to the bed – my personal minefield. I take a quick glance at my reflection in the dark screen of my phone. Jesus Christ. My hair is going in a direction that defies gravity and logic, the hoodie has a suspicious stain near the collar (mustard? coffee? a mystery), and my eyes look like two black holes of exhaustion and anxiety. No time (or desire) to mitigate the damage. The intercom buzzes again, more insistently.
Going down the stairs is the fun part. I feel like a baby giraffe trying to walk for the first time. My feet feel too big, uncoordinated. I grab the handrail as if it were my lifeline, each step a challenge. I bump my shoulder against the living room doorframe. Ow. Great, now I'll have a bruise to match my non-existent dignity. I take a deep breath, the air struggling to get in. Why does such a simple task feel like an Olympic marathon?
I reach the front door. Silence. I hear the sound of rain outside and, closer, breathing. He's there. My heart hammers against my ribs. Trembling hands, I lean towards the peephole, that tiny portal to the scary outside world.
The view is distorted, kind of watery. A guy. Young, maybe a little older than me. Dark rain jacket, cap covering his hair. Face… normal? Bored, maybe. Holding the pizza box.
And then my brain, that traitorous bastard, decides to completely short circuit. The image of the bored delivery guy dissolves and is replaced by a scene straight from the dregs of the internet, the kind with a script written in five minutes.
Suddenly, his eyes through the peephole aren't bored, they're burning with desire. He knows. He's seen through the door, through my dirty clothes and greasy hair, and seen... the hidden goddess? Oh, please, Beatriz, get a grip. The cheap fantasy continues, relentlessly: he's not just going to deliver the pizza. He's going to raise a suggestive eyebrow and say in a husky voice that doesn't match the kid in the peephole at all: "Brought your pizza, baby... and a big ol' sausage just for you."
I'd gasp and reply with something brilliant like: "Wow, what a huge sausage!" My God, how embarrassing even to think it. Then, he'd drop the pizza (who cares about pepperoni when you have... sausage?), push me through the door with B-movie urgency, press me against the wall – that same wall I just bumped into, how ironic – and take me right there, in the dark and probably dusty hallway, not caring about my stained hoodie or the fact that I can't remember the last time I flossed.
My fantasy self, with all the grace of a penguin on roller skates, would gasp dramatically: "Oh no, delivery guy... I'm a virgin!" He'd laugh, a deep, supposedly sexy sound that only exists in these kinds of scripts. "Not for long. Today you're gonna taste some real sausage."
My brain is already screaming with second-hand embarrassment, but the fantasy continues, because apparently, I hate myself. My fantasized 'me', now with a sudden mundane concern in the middle of this non-existent hormonal whirlwind, would stutter: "But... but I haven't shaved! It's been weeks!" And he, the studly pizza delivery guy, would reply, "Don't worry, baby. A true warrior braves any jungle." My God, Beatriz, where do you get these ideas? What warrior? What jungle?
The pizza box would fall to the floor in slow motion, of course, because the universe of trashy fantasies loves slow motion.
What a ridiculous cliché, Beatriz. Seriously, you need help.
A cough from outside the door shatters my pathetic fantasy. I snap back to reality with a jolt. The guy outside still looks deathly bored. My face flushes violently. Idiot, idiot, idiot. I run a hand through my hair, a futile attempt to look minimally human. I adjust my hoodie. Take another deep breath, the smell of myself giving me an unpleasant hello. Okay, Bia. Get the pizza. It's already paid for. No eye contact. No weird words. You can do this.
I reach a trembling hand for the doorknob. It's now or never (or until the pizza gets cold and the situation gets even more awkward).
I take a deep breath, count to three (which helps absolutely nothing), and turn the knob. The door creaks a little as it opens, revealing me to the outside world – or at least to the hallway and the delivery guy. My eyes are still wide, I'm sure, remnants of my mental trip to the underworld of cheap fantasies.
The delivery guy, who looks even younger and more tired up close, blinks. His neutral expression falters for a fraction of a second, replaced by something I can only interpret as a silent "What the fuck...?". He quickly recomposes himself, forcing professionalism.
"Good evening," he says, his voice monotone. His eyes avoid mine after that initial shock. "Pizza for… Beatriz?"
I nod vigorously, like one of those dashboard bobbleheads. My mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out. Speak, idiot! Say 'yes'!
He holds out the hot and gloriously fragrant box. "It's already paid for through the app."
"Ah," I finally manage to croak. The sound is horrible. I take the pizza, my hands brushing against his for a microsecond – ZAP! my brain screams, completely unnecessarily. He doesn't react, obviously. He's probably wondering if I've washed my hands at any point in my life. The silence stretches. He's waiting for me to close the door. I should close the door. But my socially inept brain decides a farewell is necessary, frantically searches the "Normal Things People Say" files, fails miserably, and improvises with catastrophic results.
"Ah, right… paid…" I murmur, staring at the pizza box as if it contained the secrets of the universe. And then, the cursed words slip out: "Hope… you… enjoyed it?"
The delivery guy's face freezes into a mask of pure confusion. Enjoyed what? Bringing the pizza? The payment already being made? My bizarre performance? He just frowns, takes a step back as if I were contagious (which, let's be honest, isn't entirely impossible), and mutters a quick "Bye" before turning his back and practically fleeing down the hall.
I close the door with a soft click, but my soul is slamming it shut. I lean my forehead against the cool wood. Did I just say 'Hope you enjoyed it'? To who? The delivery guy? Enjoyed what, for God's sake?! I feel my face burning. Total mortification. I need to bury myself. Or at least drown myself in cheese and pepperoni.
I climb the stairs clutching the pizza box like a life raft, the delicious smell guiding me back to my lair. I enter the room, kick the door shut behind me, and toss the box onto the unmade bed. Mission was… technically a success? Pizza acquired. Dignity lost in the process, but who's counting?
I liberate a slice from the box, the cheese stretching into long, tempting strings. I take a huge bite, almost moaning with satisfaction. The world might be a terrible, socially crippling place, but pizza is still pizza. As I chew, I feel an annoying itch on my butt. Without thinking, I stick my free hand down the back of my sweatpants and scratch vigorously. Ahhh, relief. I keep eating, now with one slightly greasy hand and the other having just explored the depths of my own ass crack. Pure class, Beatriz.
The warmth of the pizza and the memory of the delivery guy's confused look make me reach a sudden decision: I need a shower. Urgently. Like, right now. Maybe the hot water can wash away the shame and, hopefully, a few days' worth of accumulated grime.
I abandon the half-eaten slice back in the box and head towards the laundry basket – which is really just a pile in the corner. I grab the panties I'm currently wearing to toss them in. Out of morbid curiosity (or maybe just laziness to find a clean pair), I bring them to my nose for the final test. Inhale. The acrid, strong smell hits me like a punch. My eyes water instantly. Nope. Definitely cannot wear these for another day. Not even half a day. Not even five more minutes. I toss them onto the pile with genuine disgust for myself and start rummaging through the drawer for a clean spare.
With a towel over my shoulder and the promise of hot water on the horizon, I feel a glimmer of hope. Maybe I can feel minimally human tonight. I grab my phone to take to the bathroom – a shower soundtrack is essential – when the screen lights up with a notification. It's not the usual WhatsApp or Discord sound. It's a different ping, one I barely recognize.
Curious, I unlock the screen. It's a direct message request. On Instagram. A platform I barely use, full of perfect photos of perfect lives that I usually avoid. The username is something like @StarryNight88 – completely unknown. The profile picture is just the silhouette of someone against a night sky. The message preview is short, just three words that make my stomach twist into a weird knot, a mixture of intrigue and panic:
"Saw you today."