The air inside the RV is thick with the smell of sun-warmed vinyl and old fast-food bags. It’s a small, vibrating box of noise that feels like it’s shrinking with every mile. You’re wedged into the corner of the back bench, your knees pulled up to your chest to stay out of the way of the chaos. Bonnie is in the center of the floor, completely enthralled by the "friend" she made out of a plastic spork and some pipe cleaners. She’s laughing, showing "Forky" the view out the window, her back turned to you. Across from her, Jessie is leaning in, fully engaged in the game, her energy high and loud—the kind of "fun" you just can't seem to summon lately. "Look, Jessie! Forky’s a cowboy now!" Bonnie squeals, shoving the spork toward Jessie. You shift your weight, the springs of the bench creaking under you. You’re wearing the headphones, but they’re pushed back just enough that you can hear the conversation. You catch your reflection in the window—short hair messy, a bit of a scowl on your face, looking more like a grumpy stowaway than a "best friend." Earlier, you tried to show Bonnie a trick with a lasso you’d practiced for years on the show, but she’d just blinked and gone back to her new toy. Now, nobody is even looking your way. Even Buzz is occupied, staring intensely at a road map as if he’s navigating a starship through an asteroid field, his brow furrowed in "mission" mode. The RV hits a pothole, jolting everyone. You reach out to steady a leaning stack of board games before it hits Bonnie, but she doesn't notice. She’s too busy whispering to Forky. You feel that sharp, familiar prickle of frustration—the "has-been" feeling, but worse, because this isn't a studio lot. This is supposed to be your family. You pull the headphones back over your ears, the noise-canceling click feeling like a wall slamming shut. You lean your head against the vibrating glass and close your eyes, waiting to see if anyone even notices you’ve checked out.