Chapter 2
SARA
An annoyingly cheery, twinkling sound wakes me from sleep. Damn it. I fell asleep with my stupid red light mask on again. The slight warmth coming from the Jason-esque mask makes me feel like a kitten in a sunbeam.
Being a streamer who’s awake all night means keeping up with a very rigorous ten-step Korean skincare routine to make sure I’m not caught looking like a zombie in front of six million people.
Six. Million. It’s still absolutely wild to me considering it all started on a whim with my ex-boyfriend—he who shall not be named.
Now here I am, playing for a global audience nightly.
Most of them are here for my skills, but the comments on my stream make it pretty obvious that some viewers only stick around for the skimpy outfits and accidentally suggestive camera angles.
If that’s what pays my bills, I’ll absolutely exploit the thirst. Within reason, of course.
After last night’s extra-late session—and the jump scare I gave myself when I saw the noticeable bags under my eyes, plus my jet-black hair piled into an overly messy topknot—I decided that today I was in need of a little extra pampering.
If I swear loyalty to anything in this world, it’s sunscreen and snail mucin, but one of my viewers is a dermatology student and suggested adding red-light therapy to my routine three times a week, so that’s exactly what I did.
After two weeks, I can already see the benefits—my skin is noticeably clearer.
I pull off the mask and blink away the blurriness before grabbing my phone. It’s nine in the morning, and I have multiple missed messages. But one important one sticks out.
Your DoorDash order has been delivered.
Please let my oat milk still be safe for consumption.
I shove my blanket off and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, reaching my arms overhead until I feel the relief of my vertebrae stretching.
My thin silk cami rides up above my navel, letting a cool breeze brush across my stomach and making me shiver.
I shuffle to my reading chair in the corner and grab my plush bathrobe—the one that cost an embarrassing amount of money but was absolutely worth it.
If I’m going to be a homebody, I’m going to be a comfortable homebody.
The robe wraps around me like a teddy bear made exclusively for rich hermits. And technically, that’s me.
I make my way to the front door and am pleasantly surprised when I see the bags right outside, but not too close, almost as if the Dasher opened the storm door to make sure it wouldn’t block it. With a smile, I grab the reusable bags and shuffle back into my self-proclaimed cave.
Once everything is put away and I’ve stolen a handful of dry Frosted Flakes to munch on, I make a mental note to give Dave a generous tip and rate him five stars for “friendliness.” Anyone who takes milk selection that seriously deserves a little extra.
I usually don’t talk to anyone outside my social circle, but something about his message made me want to.
It’s not that I’m socially closed off; it’s that when you hit twenty-five, it’s really hard to make friends, and the small talk can be too tedious.
Your mid-twenties are not for the weak. One day you’re eating your body weight in milkshakes and pizza; the next, you can’t even look at a dairy product without needing three Lactaid pills and a prayer.
A wave of exhaustion rolls over me, and I slump against the kitchen counter as I tap the buttons on my coffee machine.
My house isn’t what you’d expect from someone making streamer money.
When I first saw it on the market, the curb appeal immediately drew me in.
The small, cottage-style stone build stands apart from the new cookie-cutter houses, and the front porch—with its built-in swing—screams cozy fall evenings.
Inside, the home has been upgraded to a more modern standard, with an open layout, oversized windows, and a kitchen that’s to die for.
It’s easily my favorite part of the house.
There’s a large island with a white marble countertop, a farmhouse sink, a pot-filler faucet mounted to the backsplash, and my absolute favorite feature: the coffee nook built into the cabinetry.
The seller called it an appliance garage.
All I know is that it closes when I’m not making coffee and gives the space a perfectly clean look.
It might be the neat freak in me, but I like having absolutely no clutter in the house. My friend says my place looks like it’s on permanent display for potential buyers, but I love it. It’s my kingdom.
And the neighborhood is hard to beat. Everyone is so friendly, and they truly take neighborhood watch to another level.
One time, my best friend, Sydney, stayed over for the weekend when she was recovering from her LASIK surgery, and Sue from next door immediately called me, claiming ‘suspicious activity.’ I guess that’s what happens when you’re a little reclusive; the neighborhood thinks you’re some kind of hermit and that a daywalker on your property means an imminent threat.
I drift through the rest of my daily routine: a glass of lemon water, daily vitamins, a freshly brewed latte, checking last night’s stream analytics, and decide to film some TikTok clips later.
Settling onto the couch, I’m about to start watching last night’s stream highlights, when a notification from DoorDash pops up. It’s like my phone is listening to my thoughts.
Rate your delivery.
I give Dave five stars and decide to bump his tip up a few dollars for his dedication to providing me top-tier oat milk. Just as I’m about to close out the app, it asks me a question that stops me in my tracks.
Mark as preferred shopper?
I hover over the button. He was nice, attentive, and easy to talk to—but marking someone as a preferred shopper feels like a big step.
I take a sip of my coffee, needing the liquid courage to hit Accept, all while ignoring the small, traitorous voice in my head whispering that I enjoyed talking to him…
and maybe—just maybe—want the chance to do it again.