“I can’t go to the hospital,” Tiffany whined. “My mom will murder me if she finds out I got high.”

“I think I’m dead,” I whispered, gripping my chest. “I don’t feel my heartbeat.”

“Should we call 911?”

We both looked at the door. Then at each other.

Then back at the door.

“…Nah,” I said finally.

“Nah,” Tiffany agreed.

So instead, we lay there, slowly dissolving into the floor, occasionally bursting into laughter for no reason.

At some point, Tiffany started crying.

“They’re not worth crying over,” I reminded her.

“Who?”

“Men.”

She sniffled, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her oversized hoodie. “You know what? I don’t even care about Cameron. He was just a symptom of the disease.”

I blinked. “What disease?”

“The disease of men,” she said, sitting up, eyes suddenly filled with wisdom—or maybe just intoxication. “They get you all attached, make you think they care, and then they dump you.”

I paused, letting her words hang in the air, the weight of them sinking in. “Why do we let them do this to us?” I asked, genuinely curious.

Tiffany took a deep breath, shaking her head. “I don’t know. Maybe because we want to believe in the fairytale. You know, the one where they change, where love conquers all.” She scoffed, rolling her eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. “‘It’s not you, it’s me’ What does that even mean?” She threw her hands in the air. “Of course it’s you! You’re the one doing the breaking up. You’re the problem, Cameron. Just say you don’t like me and go. Men always want to be the good guy so bad. You don’t get to act like some noble martyr for not calling me ugly while doing it.”

“They basically want credit for the bare minimum,” I huffed. “Men grow up thinking they’re owed things. Love, attention, forgiveness. Meanwhile, we’re taught to be accommodating, to shrink ourselves, to make them comfortable. We have to be perfect. Smart, funny, kind. But not too nice, or we’re desperate. Hot, but not too hot or we’re attention-seekers. Independent, but not so independent that we intimidate them. And don’t forget—low maintenance,” I added bitterly. “But also always put together, but effortlessly.”

“‘Effortlessly pretty.’” Tiffany rolled her eyes. “Like, what do you mean? My face is literally my face. What do you want me to do? Wake up with winged eyeliner and perfect hair?”

“Yes, but only if it looks natural.”

“Oh, of course. And God forbid we care about the way we look, because then we’re vain.”

“And if we don’t care enough, we’re ugly.”

“Lose-lose situation.”

We both let out a simultaneous sigh, staring at the ceiling, contemplating the eternal struggle of womanhood.

After a moment, Tiffany said, “I swear, Bev, I’m never dating another man again. Ever.”