Natasha pictures Karan’s face when he sat across from her at Starbucks. He had some stubble on his chin and she stopped herself from rubbing it. It’s jarring that a best friend can turn into a stranger in a matter of months.

“Oh, and before that, I was fired from my job, but I was okay with that at first because I’ve always wanted to be a comedian,” Natasha says. “But it turns out I kind of suck at talking to audiences, unless I’m totally wasted. I totally freeze, even when I think the stuff I wrote is pretty good. So my only real job right now with any kind of promise is being a barista. And I hate it. I keep thinking about how much comedy I could be writing if I wasn’t busy smiling while people bitched at me for not frothing their milk enough.”

Even though this is a really dumb place to start with telling the doctor what’s changed, letting it all out for the first time in months, maybe ever, feels surprisingly cathartic.

“I’ve had all these role models in comedy,” Natasha continues. “It started with Mindy Kaling and then I started reading about Aparna Nancherla and Lilly Singh, and anyway, I thought I had all this stuff in common with them, being women of color and misunderstood sometimes and all that. But they’re really on another level, one I won’t ever get to. I guess I’m finally getting the realization that just because people think I’m funny and I can write good jokes doesn’t mean I have what it takes to really make it in the one thing I’ve dreamed about for my entire life, you know?”

It should be more humiliating to ramble about all this to a woman who so clearly has her shit together. But to her surprise, Dr. Chan looks like she empathizes with what Natasha is going through.

“That must be really difficult,” Dr. Chan says. “Do you have any support? Family? Friends?”

“I do. . . .” Natasha says.

“But?” Dr. Chan scribbles something Natasha can’t make out onto her spiral yellow notepad.

“But they don’t get it. They’ve never really gotten me. Ever. Yeah, I’m the one who cracks them up, but honestly, most of the time, I’m the burden. It’s basically an accepted joke that I’m the black sheep of my family, and now my friends are moving on, living real adult lives.”

Natasha pictures the girls depositing their paychecks and having a slot in their wallets for insurance cards and signing leases and drinking fancy, colorful cocktails on dates.

“So you don’t feel as though you can really talk to any of them about what’s going on?”