I scroll through my phone to find a bunch of new photos posted by Cate: her and the other girls from my class tanning at the beach, their skin smooth and shiny as seals fresh out of the water, books with the same cheerful hot-pink cover placed on the sand next to them; holding up cocktail glasses with the sun setting in the background; mirror selfies at the mall; blurry, zoomed-in shots of them posing in the parking lot. Maybe I should feel left out, but I can imagine what it’d be like if I were with them right now—forcing myself to laugh at a joke I don’t find funny, pretending to be invested in the gossip about some famous British actor I don’t particularly like, swallowing down the expensive champagne when all I really want is a grape soda. I guess we don’t have that much in common, which would matter less if she cared more, but she hasn’t messaged me even once since I left LA.

I click away from her page, only to end up overwhelmed by an onslaught of posts from my modeling friends—or ex-friends, since I’ve barely spoken to any of them in weeks. Or maybe we were never really friends to begin with, but forced together by circumstance, in way over our heads and clinging to one another to stop from sinking. As soon as the circumstances changed, those ties dissolved.

I pull my bedcovers up higher, propping myself up on one elbow, and silently flick through the pictures. Magazine covers, glossy double-spreads, a huge brand deal, a new campaign, a special invitation to the fashion show of their dreams. Captions about their whirlwind of a weekend, how they had the absolute best time, how they’re so grateful for the experience, so excited, so thrilled, so happy. A dry, bitter taste creeps onto my tongue, and I know I should stop, leave it alone, yet it’s like prodding at the roots of a rotten tooth. When I first quit, I’d been afraid that the other models would be gleeful, that they would whisper to one another in lavender-candle-scented bathrooms, between quick flicks of mascara and spritzes of perfume, about how I had failed. But the reality is so much worse: They simply don’t care.

It should be proof, if nothing else, that I made the right choice to leave, and I should be searching for something new by now. Another purpose, another dream, something just for myself. But I’ve only ever known how to want what other people want.