Last night I couldn’t sleep. The holidays do that to me. I went downstairs, figuring I’d make myself a little snack. A chocolate chip cookie and milk, maybe – nothing crazy. But even before my hand gripped the stainless-steel handle of my smart fridge, its display lit up: Wouldn’t it be better to just call your mother?

“It’s two-a.m.” I said. “I’m just hungry.”

There they are again, unboxing their fucking noise-makers. Attaching long orange snakes from my walls to their things, horridly neon things. God, what an endless din. I watch them through gaps in the lath, peeking out between its cracks. Rattling vibrations shake me loose from my nap and I slipped through a fresh hole in the plaster.

Leila’s front wheel wobbles when she cycles over a crack in the tarmac. A car behind blares its horn as she struggles to steady the books in her basket and keep her summer dress from flaring up.

‘You daft old cow,’ the driver yells as he overtakes. He waves a flabby arm at her, blurry tattoos stretched all out of shape. She gives him the finger back.

Jeremy and I broke up months ago, but I’m still best friends with his dad. Not that this was the plan, of course. It all started with Jeremy himself, the golden boy who came highly recommended by a mutual friend. You two will be perfect together, they insisted. And for a while, we were. He checked all the boxes that mattered to a 22-year-old girl: shaggy blonde hair, eyes the color of a tropical lagoon, and abs sculpted with the precision of a Renaissance statue. Can you blame me for falling? Beyond the aesthetics, we also shared a handful of meaningful interests: we were both 22, both enjoyed watching movies, and both liked late-night food runs. Okay, maybe our compatibility was surface level at best, but we were young and he filled the lonesome void I was sinking into. So, minor details like emotional depth and long-term potential seemed entirely negotiable.

I’m a volcano’s volcano. Vesuvius. Pompeii. Krakatoa. It’s about the artistry. That’s why my first eruption had to be perfect. I planned it for over 10,000 years—curating landscapes, correcting vibes, ignoring the constant, unbearable pressure building below my crust. There was always something wrong.