Jecka sits in a Chipotle booth, chewing on a straw like it personally wronged her. The place smells like burnt rice and regret, and the kid behind the counter looks like he’s on his last five minutes of hope. Her phone’s screen glows with a text from Nicole — “running late.” Of course she is. Nicole’s always late, like it’s part of some silent power move.

Jecka scrolls through her feed, half-bored, half-irritated, typing something snarky she’ll probably delete. Her reflection in the window looks tired but defiant. She smirks at herself.

“God, why do I even hang out with her?” she mutters. “She’s like...a human spreadsheet.”

She pokes at her half-eaten burrito bowl. Cold now. The guac’s turning that weird grayish color that feels metaphorical.

A group of college kids laughs too loud behind her. She rolls her eyes. Everyone in here looks like they’re auditioning for a background role in “Mediocre Life Choices: The Series.”