But our friendship grew when I got moved up to AP English my junior year. We sat next to each other, and one time he asked if I wanted to swap short stories before we had to share them with the class. I stole glances at him as he was reading mine, and I swear to God, I saw tears in his eyes. His story was kind of like Harry Potter meets Game of Thrones meets something that no one’s written yet. I made sure to tell him all the things I liked about it and none of the things I didn’t, and he said he wrote it because it had “franchise potential.” His story was good, but mine was better. That’s not my ego speaking. I think we’ve already established I have low self-esteem. It’s just an objective fact.

“You’re an incredible writer, Parisa,” was what he said after he put it down.

The compliment meant the world to me, but in that moment, it wasn’t the only thing I wanted to hear from him. I wanted him to tell me I was pretty, too.

Sophomore year, I read The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros, and I loved it so much that I immediately downloaded her poetry book Loose Woman. Here are lines from my favorite poem:

You’re in love with my mind.

But, sometimes, sweetheart,

a woman needs a man

who loves her ass.

See? Painfully honest.

I can tell from the tone of Gideon’s voice on the other side of the FaceTime call with my sister that he’s in love with her mind, but that he’s also in love with her ass. And now he knows how to pronounce her name correctly, but that doesn’t matter because he mostly calls her “baby.”

I take my ear off the wall. I place ice on it.

Rest, I remind myself. And then I can’t help it. I press it against the wall again.

“I love you too, baby…,” I hear him say. And I pretend he’s saying it to me.

GABRIELA

When my parents signed the lease for our apartment, they wanted to give me the bedroom, but I preferred less privacy and more space for my art supplies. Plus, I was not about to risk stumbling in on them having sex if I had to get a glass of water in the middle of the night. I used to be happy with the arrangement, but after three weeks trapped in our apartment together, I no longer find myself fantasizing about four walls, a door, and a twin bed. I fantasize about my own compound. Somewhere far away from here. Somewhere I can squeeze paint onto an easel without being interrupted by another shouting match about unpaid bills and a dwindling bank account. Right now, my parents have sucked my inspiration dry.