She’s right. This is fun. Don’t ruin it. I should be grateful that I’m spending my last few minutes on earth with my best friend. The girl who’s always made life not just bearable but better. Gabriela gets me more than anyone—even my own family. Especially my own family. She doesn’t poke fun at my anxiety or the fact that I’m neurotic about everything. She has this way of reminding me what’s important with a simple, profound observation. I always try to look for the best in the worst people, but Gabs refuses to let me. Case in point: A week ago, in English class, Cornelia Martin told me that she thought my hair looked good when I wore it curly, then offered to let me borrow her Frizz Ease.

“Cornelia’s nice,” I told Gabs.

“Bullshit. Anyone can be nice,” she responded.

And she was right. Why was I always rewarding people for doing the bare minimum? After all, I can afford to buy my own Frizz Ease.

I reach for a bag of chips that’s on the bathroom floor and tear it open. I am desperate to eat. Maybe food will slow down the heartbeat that has taken up residence in my forehead. Maybe Cool Ranch Doritos will make me feel like my brain is still connected to the rest of my body. As last meals go, processed, cancer-inducing junk food wouldn’t be my first choice—but right now, it’s all I’ve got. I think about the tahchin my parents order from the Rose Market. The saffron-infused rice. The sweet and sour notes of the barberries. The chicken that is cooked so slowly in turmeric and onion that it falls apart in my mouth. It’s so sad to think I’ll never get to eat it again. I think my last TikTok post was a video of the perfectly golden-brown tahdig. It didn’t get a lot of views, but I’m pretty sure that’s only because the algorithm favors videos with people in them. I wonder if I should take a selfie, so my last contribution to social media will be a little more meaningful.

Maybe the caption could be something nice about my mom and dad, so they’ll know I was thinking of them during the end of my life. I know that most parents wouldn’t be able to handle losing their child to a drug overdose, but my Iranian parents will never recover. The shame alone will kill them. My older sister will become an orphan and write a bestselling memoir about how one pineapple-flavored gummy destroyed her entire family. I will die, and she will go on to accomplish my dream of becoming a published author. Life is so unfair.

“Are you okay?” Gabs asks. She leans in and squints at me.

“I’m totally fine,” I lie.

“Then why are you crying?”