Chapter 3
The Routine of Survival
Andrew
I've been in this apartment for weeks, yet it still looks like I'd just moved in yesterday.
Boxes line the walls like cardboard soldiers standing guard over my half-hearted attempts to unpack, abandoned long ago when the reality of my new life in Los Angeles hit me full force.
Living out of them has become my system, a chaotic method that somehow works for me.
It's not the orderly existence I once imagined for myself, but it's what's keeping me afloat in this city that never seems to slow down.
I know I should get up and use the sixty-second head start to prepare for the day ahead, to face whatever challenges this new job will throw at me, but instead, I savor the quiet.
Ever since I packed up my life and moved to LA, things have been moving at a breakneck pace, the kind that leaves me dizzy but exhilarated.
It's a stark contrast to the frozen stillness of Alaska, where days blurred into weeks and weeks into months with little to distinguish one from the other.
I love it, though... Being busy. The constant motion, the endless stream of new faces and experiences, the way each day feels different from the last. It's terrifying and thrilling all at once, like standing at the edge of a cliff and knowing you have to jump, but not being entirely sure what awaits you at the bottom.
For the first time in years, I don't feel like I'm just surviving—I feel like I'm actually living.
This was exactly what I'd hoped for when I took the leap, figuring I'd land on my feet somehow. But landing a TV role? That still doesn't feel real. Is this seriously my life right now?
Gary laughed at me yesterday, calling it common sense when I asked how I even got hired. I still don't understand it. My "performance" wasn't calculated or intentional... just me, fumbling my way through, letting Vince take the lead. Maybe that's what they wanted. Either way, I'm not complaining.
For the sake of paying my rent for the next few months, I'm glad they found me. Bewildered, but grateful. Gary mentioned how editing would change a lot of the show. Seeing how things work behind the scenes is eye-opening, if a little weird.
My thoughts drift to Vince. He has a nice smile. I always thought the phrase "captivating smile" was a cheesy cliché, but Vince actually has it. By the end of last night, I couldn't help smiling whenever he did.
I want to know more about him.
I guess he's in his mid-thirties. Where in rural Minnesota did he grow up? Does he have as many siblings as I did? More? Is he the black sheep too? What does he do for fun? How old are his kids?
The questions swirl in my head, refusing to leave me alone.
Vince is old-school handsome. Textbook handsome. The kind of good looks you see on a screen but never expect to encounter in real life. When you do, it throws you off. He doesn't feel real, like he's something I'm not supposed to touch.
And then he touched my leg.
These thoughts are going nowhere good.
My alarm jolts me out of my head. One minute has passed.
A laugh escapes my lips, short and breathless, as I push myself up and swing my legs over the side of the bed.
The floorboards are cool beneath my bare feet, a welcome contrast to the warmth still clinging to my skin.
Vince. Of course. My first thought of the day is Vince, and the realization sends a mix of annoyance and excitement coursing through me.
I haven't felt this way about anyone since I was a teenager, back when I was still figuring myself out, when every crush felt like the end of the world and the beginning of everything all at once.
Back then, thoughts of other men had consumed my inner dialogue, a constant undercurrent in the quiet moments between classes, during sleepless nights when the snow outside muffled all sound.
Men were always on my mind from the moment I hit puberty, no exceptions.
There had never been a doubt in my mind that I was gay, even in a place like Fairbanks where being different could feel like a death sentence.
Now, Vince made me feel seventeen all over again, that same stomach-flipping anticipation, that same desperate need to be seen.
The difference was that I no longer had raging hormones or guilt holding me back.
I'm a grown man, twenty-seven years old, with life experiences and scars to prove it.
I can do this. I can focus on other things, like not getting fired on my first day.
I push myself up from the bed, the mattress springs groaning in protest. My routine was predictable, maybe even boring to an outsider, but it's the key to my success, the foundation I've built my life upon.
If I didn't stick to it, I risked slipping back into the darkness that had consumed me for years, that had turned me into a shut-in afraid of his own shadow.
Sleep deprivation was one of my biggest triggers, so I make sure to get my eight hours every night, no exceptions.
I stumble into the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water from the tap and chugging it down, the cool liquid a shock to my system.
The coffee machine gurgles to life, filling the small apartment with its rich, earthy scent.
While it brews, I change into my running clothes, the familiar stretch of fabric against my skin a comfort in this unfamiliar life.
Exercise is non-negotiable for me, not just for my physical health but for my mental health too.
It's the one thing that keeps the demons at bay, that allows me to breathe when the walls feel like they're closing in.
A few times a week, I add weights at the apartment gym, the rhythmic clank of iron a counterpoint to the chaos in my mind.
After my run, the cool morning air still clinging to my skin, I eat breakfast—oatmeal with berries, always the same—and watch the news, my mind processing the day's events while my body recovers.
My evenings are just as structured, though I've been dating again since moving to LA, trying to put myself out there, to find a connection that goes beyond physical attraction.
Dating isn't going great.
Most of the guys I met seem annoyed by my unwillingness to compromise on my routines.
They don't understand that these aren't just preferences; they're survival strategies.
I don't sacrifice my workouts, my job commitments, or my evening wind-downs.
Most of all, I don't sacrifice my sleep.
That seems to be an issue for a lot of people here, this city that never sleeps, where being spontaneous is valued above all else.
Apparently, sticking to boundaries meant I was "too high maintenance.
" The words echo in my mind, a familiar refrain that stings every time.
I wonder if Vince would think that, if he'd find my need for structure and routine as off-putting as everyone else seems to.
The thought sends a pang through my chest, sharp and unexpected.
No one in this city seems to get it, not really.
The way I had to structure my days like a fortress against the darkness that had once swallowed me whole.
They didn't care that my rigid routines weren't about being difficult or "high maintenance"—they were about survival.
At least I wasn't crumbling like I used to when things fell apart.
Rejection still stung, but it no longer sent me spiraling back into that frozen place where I'd spent years of my life.
I'd packed up everything I owned and driven thousands of miles from Fairbanks to Los Angeles for a reason.
To start over, yes, but also to find someone who understood that two people could build something together without one of them losing themselves in the process.
There had to be at least one person in this sprawling city who got it, who wanted a partner to complement the life they already loved, not someone to complete them or fix what wasn't broken.
I don't need a savior riding in on some white horse. I'm not a damsel in distress waiting for rescue. I want someone who can be the cherry on top of an already pretty decent sundae.
The younger version of me, the one still thawing out from years of Alaskan winters, would have contorted himself into whatever shape someone else wanted.
Would have abandoned his morning runs, his evening wind-downs, his carefully constructed boundaries just to keep someone from leaving.
But that Andrew is buried under layers of new experiences, replaced by someone who knows his worth—or is at least learning to.
Opportunities are everywhere here, buried under layers of superficiality and judgment, but they're there if you were willing to get your hands dirty digging for them.