I’ll be the first to admit that I am prone to bouts of severe hypochondria, but right now, ten out of ten doctors would agree I’m suffering from chronic ear cartilage pain. I’ve been icing my pinnas in ten-minute increments since this morning, but the aching sensation won’t go away. “Pinna” is the term for a human’s outer earlobe. I was reminded of that after googling “how to soothe outer-ear pain” and landing on obvious remedies like rest, ibuprofen, and ice.

Luckily, ear pain is not a symptom of Adema (I googled that, too), but I’m probably getting ahead of myself. How did I find myself with this problem in the first place? Well, I’m no medical expert, but if I had to pinpoint the cause, I’d say it was the hours I’ve spent with my ears pressed against my bedroom wall eavesdropping on Neda. I can’t decide what’s more disappointing: my sister’s video calls with the boyfriend that should have been my boyfriend, or her surprisingly dry college lectures. (Apparently, you don’t have to be a talented orator to get tenure at Yale.)

Full disclosure: I don’t care about art history as much as I care about Neda’s conversations with Gideon. Fortunately, with FaceTime, I get to hear his side of the exchange as well. His voice sounds more gravelly than it did in high school. I wonder if that means he’s a smoker now. He uses words like “essentially” and “nevertheless” and “juxtaposition.” I’ve gotten acquainted with every drawl and stutter and sigh. How could I not? They talk multiple times a day—though she’s usually the one who calls him.

“I hate being home again,” I hear her tell Gideon. “It feels like such a giant step backward in my life. You’re so lucky that you got to stay in New Haven.”

I’m annoyed by her complaints about living back home. Neda’s only been quarantined in her room for a week, and my parents have waited on her hand and foot the whole time. My mom delivers her meals to her door and folds all her laundry. My dad even mounted a fifty-five-inch TV to her wall before she arrived. And I can tell they both have a pep in their step now that their favorite daughter is living under their roof again. The popular and confident child they never had to worry about. My whole life, Neda’s been the easy one. I’ve never seen her cry or doubt herself or, I don’t know, throw a massive fit because of cystic acne on her chin. I am the emotional one. She is the stable one… with flawless skin.

“No, Parisa,” Gabriela once told me. “She’s the boring one.”