I open Instagram and look at the photos Stella tagged me in. In the first, my icy eyes are lit up by the sun. I don’t recognize the face as my own. I’ve never felt much of a connection to my physical appearance, especially when it’s “pretty.” My insides are not pretty. The next photo is a selfie of us both. I look ugly next to Stella the lizard woman. In both photos, Stella added lots of emojis of stars and moons and crystal balls. A more serious astrologer would be offended by the kitsch, but not I.

I have more than 900k followers now thanks to Stella. I notice I have a new DM from her, so I open it. Today was so fun. Thnx for the reading and for letting me photograph you. I’d love to hang out again (sans the boy). Butterfly emoji, sparkly heart emoji, shooting star emoji. I giggle. Maybe Thomas was right. I respond to the DM with a blue heart emoji, which is all I can come up with. I know in all likelihood I will never see her again. But for a second I like to imagine us falling in love. I remember the last time I fell in love with someone I didn’t really know, then shut off the phone.

“What are you smiling at?” he asks. “Brotherly love?”

“Shut up.”

As we near my house, I get nervous at the idea of being alone. “Do you wanna smoke and watch a movie?”

Thomas raises his eyebrows. “Netflix and chill?”

“No,” I say.

“Sure,” says Thomas. “I have nothing else to do.”

Thomas pulls up to a spot in front of my building, and I notice someone smoking outside the apartment. As we get closer, I recognize the person.

“Oh god.”

“Fuck,” Thomas says. “You want me to tell him to leave?”

I feel legitimately grateful to Thomas for this offer and for taking my feelings seriously instead of mocking me.

“Just wait here,” I say. “I’ll tell him myself.”

I get out of the car and walk up to Bo, who doesn’t even notice me until I am right beside him. He is pacing and seems disoriented. I remember that he was once Thomas’s coke dealer.

When Bo finally notices me, he flips around and jumps. Yeah, he is definitely coked up. And probably drunk too. A lot of regulars at the Mirror Box are like this all the time. His face looks sunken and ashy under the harsh lights outside my building. There is a damp yellow stain on his shirt, probably a spilled beer. I suddenly can’t fathom how I ever found him attractive, and not just because I found out he’s my blood relative. He looks sick.

“I texted you,” he says. He throws his cigarette on the ground and stomps it out.