That’s not entirely true, I reminded myself. There was someone else I could invite to join me for dinner, but I hadn’t told him I’d moved to DC yet and didn’t want to call him with a whole evening planned. It would just go to his pretty head.

Instead, I poured some Riesling into a recently acquired wineglass and reminded myself that, with my healthy social media following, I was never truly alone.

I checked my already immaculate makeup, opened Instagram, and switched to Live view.

“Hey, friends,” I said brightly.

Izzy had once criticized the sunny voice I used in my videos. “You’re presenting a false reality,” she said. “I thought you claimed to have this ‘authentic’ persona.” I’d fired back that being cheerful wasn’t inauthentic—it wasn’t like anyone told you how they really were after a polite “how are you.” Besides, there was research to support the idea that smiling even when you felt low could put you in a better mood. I smiled harder and hoped that was true.

“Confession: I have yet to unpack from my move.” I flipped the camera around and slowly panned the mountain of boxes before turning back to my face and slapping a hand to my cheek in mock embarrassment. “I know, I know, it’s shameful. I decided I could not live another minute like this, and so tonight I am finally tackling this totally hideous task.”

I started chatting about my day—the new glassware I’d purchased, the barre class I’d attended, and the uniquely DC experience of getting stopped by a motorcade on the way home from work—and comments began appearing at the bottom of the screen.

I love DC! You’re going to have the best time there!

Great earrings!

I felt my smile stretching, becoming more genuine. This was why I shared my life online. The free products were fun, but it was the connection with real people that kept me turning on my phone. It made my heart sing to know that at that moment, tens of thousands of people across the world were taking time out of their lives to hear about mine, to send me comments.

Of course, while the comments were usually evenly divided between fawning praise and questions, there was the occasional slimy one. Nice rack seemed a perennial favorite. I ignored the more depraved comments, knowing they were almost certainly posted by some weirdo living in his mother’s basement. (The irony of mocking anyone else for living in a basement did not escape me.)

“Having a serene living space is really important to me,” I said, telling them not the truth but rather something I wanted to be the truth. “So these boxes have been driving me bananas! I’ve been far too busy since I moved here to unpack, so I made the decision to stay in tonight and finally just do it! I’ve got everything I need: a box cutter, a glass of wine, and a Talking Heads record cued up. Wish me luck!”