Don’t get me wrong—I love my girlfriend. Which isn’t the best way to start, but whatever. I do. I love her. Okay? But sometimes it feels like she doesn’t even see me. Like I’m here, breathing, waiting for her to notice, but she’s too busy filming every single thing. She’s an influencer. Not that she has to be—her parents are rich enough for her to never work a day in her life. If my dad had money like that, I wouldn’t bother with jobs either. But it makes her happy, so I deal with it. Most of the time.

But sometimes it’s too much. Like today.

After the kind of week that feels like it could kill you, I come home to my dad yelling. I don’t even remember what it was about. Something stupid, probably. The house smells like old food and mold, like always, and I just… I can’t. Not today. So I pack a bag and head to her place.

Her mom lets me in, all smiles, and tells me to go on up. I try not to think about how clean everything smells here, how normal. But when I open the door to her room, there she is, standing in front of her closet with her phone on a tripod. Filming. Of course.

I drop my bag on the floor, the thud cutting through her little performance. She glances at me but keeps going. I walk over and reach for her, wanting to feel something real for once. “Babe—”

She spins away, her tone clipped. “Brianna, I’m filming! Can you not?” Her hand lands on my shoulder, pushing me back lightly, but it feels like a shove.

“Seriously? You can’t put your phone down for two seconds?” My voice is rising, hot and bitter. “Do you even love me anymore?”

I don’t wait for an answer. I snatch her phone out of her hand and hold it away from her. “We’re talking. Now.”

She stares at me, her mouth open like she can’t believe I’d interrupt her perfect little world. And in that moment, I wonder if she even knows me anymore—the girl who quit everything for her, who gave up coke and vodka and late-night spirals just to feel worthy of her light.

But maybe I’m not the one who’s out of focus.