A few summers ago your dog died.

His name was Zhu and you weren’t too sad about his passing. Although you had taken care of him and the two of you lived together for fifteen years, it was more your brother’s dog than anything. He loved the dog and you just liked the idea of having one because it was something that people did — have dogs.

That same summer you and your friends had planned a trip to Cancun. You had planned it months in advance and were going to buy tickets at the start of July. But when July came you hadn’t received any calls, or texts, or Facebook invites; not even a Twitter mention. However, you sent all of those out and to your surprise there wasn’t a single reply. You felt hollow. You made up excuses, convinced yourself they were busy; all of them all of the time. You told yourself that they’d contact you soon.

Soon.

They left without you and you couldn’t help but stalk their photos on social media. When you saw their sun-kissed skin and bright smiles accompanied by a backdrop of paradise, you realized that it didn’t look like anything was missing. Aesthetically, they looked fine without you, maybe even better.

For two weeks you wrote passive aggressive status updates about what it means to be a real friend. You got a few likes although nothing substantial, and in response, your friends made similar statuses that resulted in a plethora of positive feedback and prayer hand emojis. You had lost again, this time virtually.

When they got back from their trip you confronted them in person while they were at a restaurant; a restaurant you had turned them on to. They told you they left you behind because you would’ve killed the mood. They told you that you have a tendency to ruin the positive atmosphere of any environment for something as small as being slightly under the weather or having broken a nail. So what would happen when your dog died?

You told them to go fuck themselves.

You knew they were right.

You’ve been this way since you were a kid.

You started hanging out with your second tier friend group more often. They were the type of friends that you never bothered learning the middle names of. They were the people you called when no one else wanted to go out with you for drinks in the middle of the week. They were more friends with one another than you were with them individually. You felt like you were intruding, like an invader because you never really told them personal things; well, until that summer.

You began divulging everything that was wrong with you. You told them about how the girls ditched you and left you to waste away in you air conditioned apartment on the upper east side of Manhattan. About how your dog died and even though you didn’t like him all that much, no one asked you how you were. About the restaurant you could no longer return to because they had “stolen it”. You even mentioned how you’re the best writer at your job but they keep giving the most limelight to Jamie Kirk.

Jamie Kirk writes about random meetings she has with random strangers on the subway. It’s the kind of thing that people of your generation eat up. You hate to admit it but her work is quite enlightening and thought provoking.

You did this at a bar on a Saturday night. To this day you’re still not very sure what you said after the first five shots of tequila, or the sixth, and definitely not after the seventh. But, you do remember the faces they made. The kind of face you make when you don’t agree with the political beliefs of a friend but you don’t want to say anything because you’re not in the mood for a fight.

They eventually stopped inviting you places and you stopped asking. You sighed a lot more then, you looked out your window a lot more too. Rain showers made you feel like they were just for you.

You were sad.

You knew you had issues. You knew that you were a borderline narcissist. You knew that you killed the mood. You knew you had a hard time letting anything go, like that time Jessa accidentally broke your Barbie in grade school. If you two were still talking, you’d most likely bring it up every chance you got. And you’d receive a, are you fucking kidding me?

Anyway, for the most part you’re alone now. So alone, you decide to go back home. Back to the mid-west where it all started. To a town in Minnesota that has nothing but a family that thinks you’re a golden child because you made it to New York; because you made it anywhere.

At your childhood home you tell your mother everything that has transpired over the past couple of months.

“They’re all a bunch of bitches.” She tells you while spilling wine from her fourth glass of D’Autrefois Pinot Noir in twenty minutes. Your father, reading the paper next to her says “Well, honey, you know how women are.”, from behind the sports section.

You decide that this is no help and go home early. You’ll see them for Christmas.

You arrive back in New York having felt the same as when you left. However, now you’re concerned that your mother might be an alcoholic and your father might be to blame. You’d really like to talk to someone about this.

Instead you start a new job. Not because your old job is bad or anything but because no one likes you at the Naked Fiction editorial department. When you start a new job at another paper you can’t help but feel like it has a less cooler name but you hope new people will make up for that.

You’re somewhat right; you meet a guy named Mark that is only a few cubicles away from you. He’s pretty cute; solid eight.

You eat lunch together a few times a week. Then you eat lunch outside of work, and then at his home. Then these lunches filled with long stares and longer sips of wine while you peer over your glass become dinners.

You start dating him because it’s what people do when they eat dinner with a cute person. He does all things boyfriends are supposed to do. He makes sure you’re comfortable in your own skin. He introduces you by name and then as his girlfriend so as to respect you as an independent woman. He doesn’t hog the covers and only does the minimum amount of complaining about it when you do; he knows your body temperature is crazy.

He does his best to make you cum a few times before he does.

Eventually he starts showing you off to his friends. You secretly have hopes that they’ll become your friends even though you’d never admit that to yourself. After having dated him for a few weeks, you’re not sure if they like you and so you all go out for drinks. You try not to talk about yourself too much because you know where that leads. So when they ask you about yourself, you don’t say too much. You actually say too little and they give you this look like you’ve wasted their time before taking the unromantic version of a long sip of wine.

Then they give Mark this look like: You left Mary for…her? She seems so dull.

Eventually Mark stops bringing you with him to those places and instead tells you that he’s going out.

“Why don’t you go hang out with your friends tonight. You stay in too much.” he tells you.

You give him a smile and tell him you’re okay. You two have been together for a few months, he has to know you don’t have any real friends.

You decide to get a dog because that’s what people do when they’re lonely. He’s a small dog because you and Mark don’t have a lot of space in the apartment that you two so rashly moved into together. You can’t decide what to name him. Chester? No. Dior? Nah. Zhu? Uh-uh.

He doesn’t look like a Zhu. Zhu used to look at you with all the love in the world. He made you feel like you were the only one in a room full of people. This one just looks through you. Chester is good enough.

A few more months go by and now you hate it when Mark goes out without you. Whenever he makes an unscheduled leave from the apartment you give him this look and do your best to make him feel guilty for leaving you on this lonely island of a couch you both spent way too much money on. Most of the time this works and he sighs before taking a seat and pulling out the take-out menu.

Chester sits on Mark’s lap. He always sits on Mark’s lap. You’re jealous because you bought him. The least he could do is love you, right? You took him out of the slavery that was the kennel and liberated him to a land of chew toys and wet food. But he only really likes Mark for some reason; you suspect he can smell the sadness on you.

One weekend your guilt tactic doesn’t work and instead of feeling bad, Mark gets angry.

“I spend so much time with you it’s like we’re conjoined at the hip” he yells at you.

“You spend no time with me! You’re always with your friends.” you tell him.

“Yes,” he replies, “because I have them.”

You both get quiet.

He says he didn’t mean that but he did and you don’t blame him. If you were in his position, with the amount of shit he’s been taking from you, you’d probably have that one stashed away in your back pocket as well.

He closes the door and spends another night with you filled with Grey’s Anatomy and silence.

The following Monday you don’t head into work with him like you usually do. You’re “under the weather”. He kisses you goodbye and you give him the most stock-photo of smiles.

You spend that whole morning in the bathroom looking at yourself in the mirror, really looking at yourself. You decide, indefinitely, that you’re not okay. How long have you been “not okay”? You search for the answer in your reflection, in the tears streaming down your face and the smile you see so desperately trying to emerge from the corner of your lips.

You come to the conclusion that you haven’t been okay for a while; that’s an understatement.

So, you stop. You just stop.

You pack a few things and stay at a hotel. You leave your dog — Mark’s dog- behind. You don’t bother saying goodbye because it’d just tilt its head and stick its tongue out in a oddly mocking manner.

In that hotel room where the bed is big enough for two people but is only occupied by one lonely woman, you think. You think about Mark and how you came to be with him. More so, how you came to need him.

You think about the first and second tiers of friends you lost so easily and so quickly. You think about any relationship you’ve ever had and the ones you were never able to have. You think about why you still care that Jessa broke your Barbie.

(You looked her up on Facebook. She’s engaged.)

It is a unanimous decision of one that you decide that this moment is the moment. The moment that everyone faces, a moment of self.

You go to the bathroom and stare into the mirror once more. For what is better for self reflection than a mirror.

Looking at your reflection, you realize that the woman in the mirror is almost unrecognizable. You don’t know her. This isn’t what you wanted to be but this is what you are. And you’ve been her for so long that you don’t know if you have the time or strength to change.

So, here’s the choice, the one you see in dramas and movies: Stay how you are and hope things will eventually work out in your favor or change yourself into the person you want to be and hope that works out as well.

You hesitate choosing either because both require hope; something you gave up on along the way.