Chapter 3
SARA
The soft hum of my PC fills the room, providing the white noise I need to drown out the silence between scrolling comments during today’s stream. Another message pops up in the chat—something about my outfit.
I try to ignore it, but it lingers like an annoying fly at a Fourth of July picnic.
“If you’re going to objectify me, my mods will remove you from the chat,” I say into my mic. “I’ve said it before—I’m here for the game. If you’re here for anything else, you can leave.”
Normally, comments about my appearance roll right off me.
I knew what I signed up for as a female streamer.
Objectification, weird DMs, unsolicited opinions—it comes with the territory.
Most nights, I’d lean into it, gain a new subscriber, and move on.
But tonight, something feels… off. My emotions are muddy, edged with irritation and a prickle of self-consciousness I can’t shake.
I glance at my phone and internally scream. Like clockwork. Shark week. This is not what I want to deal with today, or any day, really. I swear I suffer from the worst menstrual cramps.
“That’s all for tonight, guys. I’m feeling under the weather.” I shut down the game as streams of well-wishes fly in from my viewers. Some of them can be so sweet.
Pushing my headset up, I lean back in my chair, stretching until my spine cracks loud enough to echo.
A dull ache rolls through my abdomen, the cramps already building in slow, warning waves.
My mood teeters on the edge, and I feel like I’m one sentimental TikTok away from dissolving into sobs.
My period always hits like a freight train, so I decide to be proactive before it fully derails me.
I open the delivery app and start adding items to my cart. Tampons, ibuprofen, an electric heating pad, and a family-size bag of potato chips. The holy quartet of cycle survival. I toss in a couple of comfort snacks for good measure—because you can never have too many snacks.
After placing the order, I head to my closet and pull on the comfiest outfit known to mankind: leggings and a worn, oversized T-shirt. I finish the look with my bathrobe, tying it loosely for maximum comfort, then make my way into the kitchen for my ultimate menstrual-care comfort ritual.
I fill the kettle with water and set it on the stove. A good cup of tea starts with the right water temperature, and the only way to guarantee that is by boiling it properly on the stovetop. I stand by this statement and will continue to do so until they bury me six feet under.
Fishing a chamomile tea bag from the holder, I drop it into my favorite mug—the one I found perched on top of my mailbox a few months ago.
I never figured out who it belonged to, but it was far too cute to toss, so I brought it inside, scrubbed it clean, and kept it safe.
I told myself I was performing a public service—rehoming a mug in need.
It’s white with a red-and-white mushroom cap for a lid, and stamped across the front in cheerful lettering are the words “I’m a fungi. ”
The kettle begins to whistle, a sharp, impatient sound cutting through the quiet kitchen.
I turn off the heat and pour the water slowly, steam rising in soft, curling ribbons.
The scent of chamomile blooms almost instantly—warm, floral, faintly sweet—wrapping around me like a hug.
I place the mushroom-shaped lid on top, trapping the heat inside as the tea steeps, the mug warming my palms the moment I lift it.
Placing the cup on my designated snack tray, I grab a bag of baking chocolate chips and Chex Mix and add them to the tray before making my way to my couch.
After confirming everything is nestled in place on the couch, I collapse back into it and turn on my favorite trashy reality show, Love Is Blind. Bring on the drama!
I’m so engrossed in the show that I lose all sense of time—until my cramps start screaming. I reach for the nearly empty bottle of ibuprofen and notice a missed notification on my phone.
My Target order has been delivered. Perfect timing. My uterus is demanding a heating pad. Those disposable ones were not cutting it.
Bless whoever invented delivery apps. I would marry them.
Unless they’re already married, then I would name my firstborn after them.
I shuffle to the front door, tightening my robe before opening it to the bite of frigid January air.
This is one of the coldest winters we’ve had in years, and I’m endlessly grateful for whoever braved this weather to shop for me.
I’d much rather be warm inside than out there facing the cold.
I freeze when I look down at my doorstep.
Sitting on top of my delivery bags is a plush stuffed animal.
Specifically—a brown sloth. I pick it up slowly, fingers sinking into its soft weight, staring into its wide, gentle eyes.
Without thinking, I hug it tight against my chest. Something warm melts in my ribs at the small, unexpected kindness.
Like the Grinch, I can practically feel my heart grow three sizes.
I glance around the porch and down the quiet street, half-expecting the delivery driver to still be there—even though the order was dropped off two hours ago.
Digging through my robe pocket, I try to find my phone.
Gosh—darn it. I swear it was right there.
The cold air creeps into the house, and I hurry to scoop up the bags and carry them into the kitchen.
Once everything is safely inside, I grab the sloth and head back to the couch, still searching.
I find my phone tucked between the cushions. Figures.
Snuggling into the couch with my new bestie, I unlock my phone, navigate to the app, and my jaw nearly drops when I see his name: Dave. My oat-milk savior—and now my sloth-bearer.
After contemplating for less than a minute, I add a message—along with a tip.
Sara
Thank you for the sloth. I shall name him Sir Sloths-A-Lot. Seriously. He made my night!
I hit send, my heart racing so hard I can hear it in my ears. I don’t know why I’m this nervous over a delivery guy seeing my message… but I hope he does. And a small part of me hopes he’ll reply.