Article by Anonymous Art by Perry Davis
December 5th, 2025:
I remember the day I had to leave: the closed door I wanted to reopen, the kinetic energy that escaped with you, and the stillness of the air in the wake of your decision. The softness that seemed so embedded within you was replaced with a stoicism I didn’t recognize. You weren’t going to melt into me this time. I wasn’t going to apologize for bringing it up or ask you three more times that evening, “we’re good, right?”
No, this time you turned your body away from me when I reached towards you. This time, the gentleness that cushioned these talks in the past was all steel. This time, I knew I wasn’t going to sit next to you on the couch while you smoothed my hair.
Once home, I threw off my heavy bag designated for that weekend. A long train of clothes thrown off hangers and out of dresser drawers leftover from my previous determination to impress you with my outfit escorted me to my unmade bed, ready for my dwelling. In my dreams, your hand sheltered mine, and your cigarette breath whispered sweet melodies into my ear.
At 2:00 am, I woke up to deep hunger pains. In the kitchen, I opened the fridge to its nagging, fluorescent light.
October 29th, 2025:
I increasingly have nighttime panic attacks. The feeling seems more permanent, like life-ending existential dread. In one waking dream, I am traveling in the belly of a ship, one body stowed among hundreds; in another, I am certain that I am a brick in a wall, forever mortared in place. I wake from these dreams folded into myself, every muscle of my body clenched. You sigh and turn your back to me as I thrash and pummel my head into the pillow. I just want to be held in a vice grip by human arms, squeezed until I remember how to sob.
April 2nd, 2023:
I spent four years fixating on every curve of my body and the calories of my toothpaste. Four years of blocking out every voice of every loved one. On April 2nd, I let go of four years of conditioning and discipline. In front of the fridge light, tiptoeing so my mom doesn’t wake up to find me in my darkest moment, I eat a microwave pizza, the entirety of my brother’s graduation cake meant for the next day, a family-size bag of Cheetos, and three ice cream sandwiches.
October 7th, 2025:
We take long naps after smoking weed. The thick air fogs our brains as we become quiet, dreamy creatures. We moan, vulnerably, about what we hate most about ourselves. I rant about my existentialist fears that appeared “inconspicuously” after I first read Sartre. You tell me you hate the color yellow and your ex-girlfriend. I run off on a tangent about the death of artistic influences due to the progression of AI and technocapitalism.
Well, I don’t know. Instagram elicits trust by revealing intangible rules and helping users achieve algorithmic appeal. But, like, its strategic, business-oriented foray into algorithmic transparency, hinged on the temptation of algorithmic appeal, does little to actually like meaningfully, um alleviate the disciplining effects of its, of its, well, algorithmic power.
Yeah, and, like, fuck, I don’t know, I’m pretty high, you say.
June 10th, 2019
I’m addicted to baking banana bread. I find new recipes on TikTok every week, and eagerly wait for the night to finally get the kitchen all to myself. I put my headphones in, turn on Alex G, and dance on the hardwood floor while mixing the batter. My mom comes upstairs as I am watching Seinfeld and stuffing my face with the sweet, warm bread. She stands at my door and stares.
You should eat like a woman, she says, and then walks off without another word.
August 4th, 2025:
You and I develop a routine.
Do you love me? I ask as I shut off the bedside lamp.
Of course, you say. I love you.
I don’t believe you, I say.
April 2nd, 2018:
While making dinner, my mother screams at my father for not helping, my father screams at my mother for being needy. Her tears fall into the chicken masala as her hand trembles while stirring the sauce. My father sits and watches, then walks to the fridge for a can of beer. I don’t want to see their vulnerability up close. I avoid the kitchen after that.
May 16th, 2025:
While the sun is falling and the moon shine outlines each curve of your nose, I tell you my mother’s words, almost to reassure myself I can still remember them. I stare at your foggy eyes as they begin to drift off and whisper evanescent memories. You nod at the end of each story and make a cute, slight frown just so I know you are listening. Thank you.
June 10th, 2016:
I watch my mother weigh her food. She waits for the scale to reach 0 pounds, and then meticulously cuts her banana, puts a glob of almond butter on the side, and places it on top. She glances at my disoriented eyes.
You will understand once you’re older, she says with a smirk.
March 3rd, 2025:
You send me a good-morning text once you wake up every day. We FaceTime after my class. I strip in front of the camera, not thinking twice. I visit you every weekend and we entwine our fingers on the street, displaying our love while my heart skips. It all feels too intimate. I am not used to being this closely tied to a person, but you desensitize me. Is this what love feels like? I feel like I’ve been adopted into a secret subculture.
February 14, 2013:
I have never seen my parents hug, kiss, or hold hands.
Daddy is my best friend, my mother would tell me and my older brother.
Suuure, we’d say. Once, during dinner, my brother and I ask my father if this is true.
Say it, say it, we chant.
Mommy is my best friend, he says, laughing with relief and embarrassment when he reaches the end of the sentence. I love her.
What is love? I ask.
I provide the money for her to cook our dinners, do our laundry, pay the bills, and drive you two around.
Then my father turns and pats her on the shoulder. My mother sits, unaltered.
January 29th, 2025:
The bus is filled with smells of unflushed pee, an old man’s tired, snoring breath, smoke from a grape-flavored vape, and Marlboro Reds. Some on a commute from work, others from school, some for the ride, and me, to meet you. I fear the smells have besieged me. With no other choice, I rub deodorant harshly between my boobs and under my armpits — afraid a perfume will leave the impression I’m trying too hard. I pull out my phone’s camera and stare at every red mark on my face; the trapped oxygen of the bus brings all my pores to the surface, as if they want to escape with me.
Your nervous, adolescent chattiness is refreshing. When I first make you laugh, I glimpse the twelve-year-old inside of you, and my shoulders untighten. Altogether, I forget about my smell.
For our first date, we go to a taco restaurant. I order three tacos and you order two. I overthink my decision the whole time, attempting to eat slowly, like a woman.
September 21st, 2010:
I fall into a routine with my mother.
Do you love me? I ask while climbing into bed.
Would I cook all your food if I didn’t? she replies, pulling the blanket over me.
I’m not sure.
Or do your laundry and take you to the doctor? she says, walking toward my bedroom door.
I guess not, I said before she turned off the light.
December 5th, 2025:
The hunger pains harassed me. I decided not to eat and closed the fridge.