The aroma hits me immediately as I place my key in the lock. I fling the door open faster than I intend to. The wave of garbage hits me. Shit. I don’t have the time or the patience for this. Not now. All I want to do is sink down onto the couch and scan through Instalook. We were so busy today that I didn’t get much of a chance, and my mind is reeling with all that I missed. Now Instalook is going to have to wait because there's no mistaking the smell that fills my tiny apartment. It only takes two tiny breaths for me to realize its origin and my mistake. I accidentally left last night’s take out in the trash.

Take out I barely touched, which explains the overwhelming stench.

I curse myself. Not only am I missing out on what’s happening on Instalook, but also, I have research to do. I can’t believe how stupid I am— I shouldn’t be so forgetful. It’s just that it was always his job, the trash, which is clearly why my apartment reeks of warm, putrid, rotting food. I begin to dry-heave. Sweat beads at my temples. I can’t afford to set the AC lower than eighty-two, which doesn’t help with the smell. I could faint at any moment. Who knows how long it would be before anyone found me?

The wretched smell wafting from my apartment should be a dead giveaway, but apparently, no one in this building cares. These days, people are willing to look the other way. Everyone has their own problems. I once saw a story on the internet where an elderly woman was dead in her house for eight months before anyone thought to look for her. That would be me. Only younger.

I massage my temples and turn the air conditioner all the way down. Fuck it, who cares about paying your electricity bill if you won’t survive to see it come? I toss my keys onto the counter, and I can almost hear his voice in my mind. Lock the door, Izzy. Lock the door. But I don't lock the door. It feels kind of nice to be brazen, now that he's not here to stop me. It feels like playing Russian roulette with my life, and before today, before I saw them, taking chances like this was the only thing that brought me even an ounce of satisfaction. Locking the door doesn't matter much anymore.

Not even on this side of town.

When it's your time to go, it's your time to go. Damn it, Izzy, I hear him say. Why can’t you ever listen? I cover my ears. I hate it. I hate his voice. I hate that he’s still bouncing around in my head, and yet at the same time, I don’t want to consider the alternative. There’s no telling how long I’ll keep hearing him speak to me. How long will I remember what he sounds like? How long will I know what he would have said? A year? Five years? Forever?

I suck a deep breath in, pinch my nose with one hand, and with the other I take the trash sack from the garbage, and set it out in the hall. On my way back in, I spot the mail I left on the counter yesterday. As I scan through the envelopes, I can see that it’s all the same: bills, bills, and more bills. It never ends. At least there were no boxes today. Three days running, and the deliveryman has stayed away. This is a record for me. Of course, it isn’t just sheer willpower—I only have one credit card that isn’t maxed, and mama taught me at least one thing: drown if you must, but know how to save yourself if you change your mind. Suddenly, I feel that familiar softness circling my ankles. I kick Whiskers away. I hate that cat. He butts his head against my lower legs, and I part them. It’s like he knows.

I scoot away. He follows.

Eventually, I give up. I pick up a bill and the lighter that sits on the counter, and I hold the edge of the envelope to the flame. Fire smells better than rotting food. And it gets rid of the evidence. Usually. I watch those shows. Investigators are smart these days. You have to be smarter. You have to be like Whiskers. Relentless. He goes around my legs and through, in and out, in and out. I know what he wants, besides playing ring around the rosy with my legs. I know I forgot to feed him this morning, and yet it seems like too much work just to open a can of food. That's something else Josh always took care of. It was his cat, after all.

“No,” I tell him, and my voice reverberates off the walls. No. That’s what I should have said. Don’t go. I don’t really need that after all. A thousand times, I should have said it. Now, my silence is the loudest sound in the room. Hell, now it’s the only sound in the room. I decide the cat can wait—at least until I’ve checked social media. At least until I’ve seen their faces. I toss the burning envelope in the sink. Smoke has filled the kitchen. I watch it burn for a moment, and then I turn on the water.

Whiskers meows. “Fuck you,” I cough. “You’re just another somebody demanding service,” I say, tugging at his ear. It's not like I was the one who wanted the cat in the first place. I said no pets. I have bad luck with pets. But when Whiskers showed up, just a tiny orange kitten, starving to death and crying on our doorstep, it was Josh who caved and brought him inside. Feed them once, my mother used to say, and they’ll never go away. I told him that too—not that he listened. He said he couldn't possibly leave him there to starve. After all, he had to live with himself. It's too bad he didn't feel the same way about leaving me.

I nudge Whiskers away with my foot. “Go.”

My voice filling the empty space sends chills down my spine.

I feel the blood come rushing to my ears; I feel my heart begin to race, and I know what comes next. I sink to the floor, curl into a ball, and cover my ears. I think about all of my friends on Instalook. They’re calling out to me. I flip through their profiles, in my mind, one by one, until eventually I can see straight again. I think about all the things I have to buy, all the things they want me to know about, all the ways we can be alike, until eventually, I decide three days is good.

It’s been a good streak.

But my mama was wrong about a lot of things, so she was probably wrong about that too. Nothing good comes from being conservative. Moderation is for boring people. And I refuse to be that. Josh said I was destined, that we were destined for a big life, and I can’t let him down. Not now. Not since he died for our cause.

I hop online, and I buy that scarf I saw the other day on @livingwithlulu547. It was featured on her “fifty faves under fifty dollars” post, so it’s practically a steal. Once that’s done, I picture myself wearing it, and suddenly I am not thinking about dead husbands or empty apartments or bankruptcy. I’m thinking about abundance. @livingwithlulu547 knows a thing or two about that too. She’s always posting quotes, and it’s like I could be living with her. If my feelings were as superficial as her makeup hacks, that is.

I need more than good lighting and finding the perfect angle.

I need something deep.

That’s why I’m thinking about that beautiful couple, about how much he must love her. I’m thinking about Americanos and summer dresses and what kind of perfume she was wearing. I’m thinking that if I’m extra nice, maybe Stacey will offer to buy me that kind too. Then I can save room on my credit card for the other things I’ll need to win them over. Anyway, I met @livingwithlulu547 and she wasn’t all that. Not in real life. Get this, her name isn’t even Lulu. It’s Sharon.

Don’t get me wrong, I like her style. But it could never be more than that. This is how I know that if I can just see that couple again, it'll help. I’ll feel better about the last one, who didn’t work out. I’ll feel grounded. Maybe I’ll even be able to force down a little food.

Although, it’s not food that I need. I followed a man on Instalook who has gone two years without eating a single thing. He travels the world and survives on coconut water. I didn’t even know they had coconuts in all the places he visits. I wrote him about it, and he says he has them shipped in. This gave me hope. There really are people out there willing to go the extra mile. People like Josh. That’s what I need, more than food. I need hope.

I plop down on the couch and open my laptop, click on the browser and type in his name. Grant Dunn. I haven’t seen anything concrete in regard to the places they frequent, which is why I haven’t quite figured out our next meet-up.

But I tell myself not to give up.

I will see them in person again. Once can’t have been it for us. I breathe easier as their photos load on the screen. I have loved getting to know them, learning their likes and their dislikes. I may not yet know where she hangs out in real life, but I know everything else. I know what Josie Dunn reads, I know her favorite flower—antique roses. I know she hates cats, and that laundry is her nemesis, and that she’s allergic to shellfish. One can never be too careful. I know I won’t have a ‘chance encounter’ with her in a seafood restaurant. Still, it makes me so happy to see their faces. I keep looking. I keep checking Instalook for a sign. Tell me where to go. It only takes one post about the future, one shred of something concrete. I know if I’m diligent—if I’m careful enough— I’ll find what I’m looking for. Even though I knew the moment they walked into my shop, I already had.