2
I hit the first landing huffing my lungs out and slam into the wall.
My heart goes thump-thump-thump. I shuffle up to that little window—so filthy that if I tried to scrub it the Virgin Mary might show up or I’d see New New York from Futurama —but all I can make out is my panic-stricken face and centuries of dust.
The hallway light clicks off. Very cool, universe, impeccable timing.
Thanks for the assist with my anxiety attacks.
I spot the black car and—of course—the lady who looks like she runs a cartel gets out, cool as you please.
I watch her cross the street toward my building.
She doesn’t run, doesn’t look around—just strolls in like the condo board president.
I’m this close to either swan-diving over the railing or sprinting to my place on the fifth floor without blacking out. My body wants to bolt and my inner drama queen is already switching my phone to Live in case I need to record my last words for true-crime TikTok.
The lunatic starts mashing the buzzers. Lady, nobody opens up in this building—not even the ghost on the second floor—but ding, buzz, and the door clicks open. There’s always one neighbor with too much faith in humanity.
I slide down a step in slow motion, half-hidden, coat dragging, bag clutched to my chest. At this point it’s not fear, it’s performance art.
The motion light flicks on and I press so flat to the wall that if I blend in any harder I’ll become part of the stucco.
Plan: if I don’t breathe, maybe she can’t catch me.
Heart in full-on rave mode, thumping in my temples, my throat, even my big toes.
What if she comes up and finds me splayed here?
Do I go, "Hi, I’m the building’s anti-theft decoration, nice to meet you"?
But she doesn’t come up. She stays downstairs, pacing in front of the mailboxes.
I peek out, because caution and I have a very short relationship.
She pulls out her phone. Heads up: impromptu photo shoot!
And she starts snapping the mailboxes, one by one, so leisurely I want to go down and applaud. What even is this?
I swear I’m this close to going down and saying, "Want my W i? Fi password too, my panty size, and my phone PIN, sweetheart?
" But I hold back. Knowing my luck, my first attempt at acting tough would end with a police report or a headbutt.
So I stay mummified on the stairs, watch her wrap her DIY paparazzi session, and stroll off without a care.
I don’t breathe until I hear the door slam. I deflate, half-collapsed on the landing, drenched in cold sweat, and thinking that if this is what adventure feels like, I’ll sign up for the Ikea Family card and even the gas-station rewards program. Does anyone have an inhaler, please?
When I finally walk into my place, Vega’s sprawled on the couch, a princess dethroned by the flu, her bun uglier than ever—honestly, it’d crunch if you squeezed it—surrounded by a mountain of tissues. The TV’s on mute and she looks like she’s survived biological warfare.
"Back already?" she says, voice dragging as she blows her nose. "How’d it go with my fiancé?"
"‘Fiancé,’ my ass," I say. I toss my purse onto the armchair and stick the thermometer in her armpit—know her too well; she’s definitely still feverish. She makes a face but doesn’t protest. "You have no idea, girl. Ray’s way nicer than you make him sound.
Zero grabby hands, not a brush, not a hint.
Only thing missing was him tucking a blanket over me and reading me a bedtime story. "
Vega lets out a laugh that starts in her throat and devolves into a death-rattle coughing fit, like a lung’s about to roll across the floor.
"Told you, babe. Wish we could quit this, though."
"Oh, come on, you don’t get to complain—you love easy money, off the books, no IRS," I needle her, wiggling into her tissue nest. "But listen, Ray’s the least of it. Girl, today I lived through an episode you’re gonna freak over."
Vega peers at me from the depths of her crusty lashes, one eye half-open, already in the pose of here-comes-the-drama. And look, if I don’t dramatize it, I choke.
"There was this blonde at the party," I begin, because morally I have to tell this. "But not just any woman, okay? Tall, strong, short hair, black suit you could wear to a funeral or to run half the block. A whole-ass truck of a woman—she’d run you over and then throw it in reverse to check if you’re still breathing. She watched me all damn night. I swear, one second it was ‘she’s gonna bust me, I’m screwed,’ and the next it was ‘or am I the one she’s gonna eat alive? ’ Half terror, half turn-on."
Instead of feeling sorry for me, Vega blows her nose with such passion the poor thermometer trembles.
"Was she hot?"
"Girl, she wasn’t storefront pretty. She was dangerous energy. She pinned me with that stare and suddenly I wanted to press my back to the sink without negotiating a damn thing. On the outside I was a laid-back diva; on the inside I was praying to the sphincter god."
"Oh, Alaska, the movies you make in your head. And then what happened?" Vega says, wiping her nose.
I give her the play-by-play, and Vega’s eyes go wide, the thermometer hanging from her armpit.
"You do get that she’s not some crazy OnlyFans fan, right?"
"I wish that were it, girl. She was a chick basically serving up her ass ready to be flipped, and I was torn between bending her over or calling 911. And she’s messing with the mailboxes—God knows what for. Between the scare and the turn-on, I’m about to catch a sympathy fever, I’m telling you."
Vega’s eyes pop and she cackles. Then the cough wrecks her rhythm and I, being a saint, take the thermometer, hand her a fresh Kleenex, a little affectionate forehead tap, and shhh.
"How high am I?" she grumbles.
"One-oh-one point five…"
"Well, with your dyke-stalker tale, I’m definitely shooting up to one-oh-two. Girl, seriously, watch it—there’s a difference between a sexy mess and the cops prying open our building door."
"Look, princess of the sniffles, chill. Tomorrow I’ll go down to the mailboxes and see if she left a note or a little heart or a threat. If I run into her, maybe I’ll ask if she wants my ID number or if I should just give it to her horizontally to speed up the paperwork…"
Vega lobs a soft pillow at me with just enough force to scare moths, but I strap it across my chest like a Miss Universe sash from the rough side of town.
"You’re reckless, I swear. I love you, but you’re a goddamn menace."
"Love you too, brat. Go nap some more, because if tomorrow comes with a kidnapping, I want you fresh and ready to negotiate the ransom."
So there we are, both of us laughing through snot, paranoia, and existentialism—because we’ve got the drama and the dark humor covered.
In the end, when the world powers down and only distant cars and Vega’s snoring get through, I drop onto the couch, queen of sad-girl posing, and my 3 a.m. philosophical vein kicks in.
How did we end up here? Because we’re stubborn, dumb as rocks sometimes, and full-time survivors.
Our mother—hood edition, card-carrying teen mom—had us, loved us so-so, and one day went poof. No note, no instructions, no explainer video. She left us at eight years old, out in the cold of the system.
The system, in case you’re curious, is a flaming piece of shit.
Smiling social workers, group homes where you learn to swallow snot, tears, and pride in the same spoonful.
We majored in crying inward, in loving ourselves crooked, and in saving the last piece of candy like it was a duke’s inheritance.
Things happened there we don’t talk about even with each other, so I’m not telling you now.
What stuck is this tic of sizing up doorways and corners without even noticing.
So by eighteen, no tears, no triumphant movie soundtrack. We left the group home from hell without drama and without inspirational hugs. Thanks and good riddance. Just our backpack, heavier with anxiety than clothes.
From there on, we worked whatever came up.
The kind of jobs that have you smelling like fry grease at seven a.m. and dropping off packages that are never for you.
Sticky-bar gigs, and a whole summer cleaning apartments for loaded tourists who leave the bathroom smelling like a lethal mix of Gorgonzola and Chanel No. 5.
And then Patri showed up. She’d graduated before us in the art of hustling.
Patri lit us up with her survivor wisdom and gave us a masterclass on a park bench between handfuls of sunflower seeds: "Being twins isn’t just for pulling ugly guys in track suits at the bar, girls.
If you know how to move, it’s like having superpowers.
You can live like the Kardashians without cameras following you while you brush your teeth.
" The queen was right; it kills me to admit it.
Result? Look at us now: almost twenty-one, a top-floor place in Malasana with more square footage than shame, a bank account that doesn’t make you cringe, and a complicity between us deeper than splitting a box of condoms at the grocery store.
We don’t have a mother—so be it—but we gifted ourselves a life with a weird plot, sure, but ours.
We’re missing plenty, I won’t lie. Just not in the fridge.
We hunt for mother love in sad playlists and therapy with an expensive shrink.
But here’s my dogma, my religion, my mantra: no matter what happens, even if we blow everything up, there’s something sacred between us—the certainty we never let go.
Even if the ground opens and samurai demons crawl out.
Even if we have to go hand in hand—screw it—together.