This massage feels divine. Face steamer on, pores wide open, and my mind floating somewhere between TikTok trends and iced matcha fantasies. How could life possibly get better with all this free time and no 9-to-5 dragging my soul?
Then reality strikes.
"Ow! Okay, okay, it's giving 'roast chicken,' not 'spa glow.' Can you turn down the heat on this steamer? My face isn't beef brisket!"
The heat only worsens. I sit up, half blind, the sunlight from my east-facing window cooking me like I'm tomorrow's leftovers.
"OH MY FUCKING GOD. Mom! What kind of medieval wake-up technique is this?! Haven't you heard of knocking or gently tapping your child on the shoulder like a normal person?"
She strolls in with that smirk that says, "I meant to do that."
"Language, Miss Internet Star. Besides, the last time I tried waking you with a kiss, you hissed at me like a feral cat."
"Oh, spare me." I flop back dramatically. "You used to kiss my forehead. Now I'm waking up in an oven."
"Well, I can't go around getting accused of kissing grown women. People might say I'm a lesbian." She wiggled her brows. "You know how fast gossip spreads online these days."
"Jesus, woman." I rolled my eyes so hard they practically popped out. "You're impossible."
She clapped her hands once. "Anyway, breakfast is a distant memory. You missed it. Again. Maybe go outside today? You know, touch grass. Or even better, edit that video that's been haunting your drafts for three days."
"Yea, yea," I muttered, dragging myself to the bathroom. "Tell the sun I said hi."
She was halfway out the door. "Be back by eight! Don't burn the house down. And don't be Cinderella. Ain't nobody coming to find that shoe."
I shut the door behind her and leaned against it with a long sigh.
I need my own apartment. Like yesterday. I can't keep living like this, no peace, no privacy, no sleep. I'm not saying I'm Sleeping Beauty, but damn. This house kills any vibe I manage to build. I mean, some girls find love at brunch or on late-night walks. Me? I'm banking on destiny and a full REM cycle.
Eventually I peeled myself off the door and made my way to the kitchen. Bread. Nutella. Sausage. The Holy Trinity. I toasted a Nutella sandwich, diced the sausage with one of those big-ass knives that make me feel like a Food Network villain, then cracked two eggs into a bowl. Some salt here. Some pepper there. A pinch of seasoning and stir. Dunk into a pan and fry. Boom lazy brunch with taste.
Pro tip: I might be the laziest human alive when it comes to waking up, but when it comes to food? Chef-level execution. Lazy girl gourmet.
With the meal ready, I shoved it all aside and darted into the bathroom. There's no way I was letting the smell of oil and onions linger on freshly bathed skin. I took the fastest shower of my life, threw on black shorts, a sports bra, and scraped my hair into a messy bun that made me look semi-homeless but aesthetically pleasing.
Back in the kitchen, I blended milk with brown sugar and ice. Took a long sip.
I earned this.
Then I collapsed into the living room couch with my food like a villain ready to ruin the plot. Editing? Pfft. Not today. Maybe not this week.
As the TV came on, an ad popped up on E! Entertainment: "You Get Me" — the reality show everyone's talking about.
I sat up. Okay, okay. Let me see what this is all about.
They showed quick flashes of hot singles in designer swimwear, rooftop drama, sultry glances, and one clip that looked dangerously close to a fight in a hot tub.
My curiosity? Activated.
Out came my phone. A quick Google search turned into a rabbit hole of articles, forums, leaked audition tapes, and spoiler threads. And that's when I saw it, the payout.
"One. Million. Dollars."
I actually choked on my milk.
Excuse me?? You mean to tell me they're handing out seven figures just for participating in a filmed vacation full of fine people and scripted love triangles?
I needed to see more. So I flipped the channel to 264. The official channel where it would be aired 24/7.
Let me break it down for you.
So apparently, you apply with a sob story like some variation of "I've never found love," or "Everyone dates me for clout." You sit in front of a judging panel and pretend you're heartbroken enough to risk your dignity on national TV. If selected, you get thrown into a luxury penthouse with eleven other genetically blessed strangers for three months. No phones, no outside contact, no privacy.
The goal? Fall in love. Or pretend to convincingly.
The challenge? Viewers get to vote for who stays and who gets evicted. No strategic partnerships and the producers have cameras and mics on you 24/7. Everything you say, do, whisper, or mumble becomes public content. So if you think you're going to finesse your way through, good luck hiding your cringe.
Still, all I heard was "One million dollars" and "Hot strangers in hot tubs." And suddenly, I'm interested.
I couldn't stop watching the previews. Something about the way these people moved, they were like characters in a movie you couldn't look away from. The girls? Some with BBLs while others with bold lips. The guys? Six-packs, charm, and fake vulnerability. But there was one dude who caught my eye. He wasn't yelling or flexing or thirst-trapping like the rest.
He walked in like he knew the whole room was about to orbit him.
Eric.
Of course, that's his name. Had to be. Even his smile was expensive.
I could practically hear the internet breaking. I already knew the girlies were Googling him, TikTok stitching his walk-in, and speculating on his tax bracket. And here I was, looking like a soggy bag of laundry on the couch.
Fine.
So maybe I wouldn't be cast this season. Maybe I needed to work on my femininity arc or improve my lighting setup. But what I could do right now? Review this show. Publicly. Loudly. On YouTube. My channel needed a boost and this, this was a goldmine.
I grabbed my ring light, mounted my phone, threw on a hoodie and some lip gloss (bare minimum, but it gives "I woke up like this" vibes), and started recording.
"Hi guys! So, I just watched episode one of You Get Me, and I have THOUGHTS…"
Thirty minutes, two outfit changes, and one heated rant later, I posted the video and flopped back onto the couch, emotionally spent and slightly buzzed from my DIY iced milk latte.
I kept watching until the clock crept past 7 p.m. At some point, I passed out, face mashed into the throw pillow, drool betraying my dignity.
"Baby!"
I jumped, disoriented. Drool? Check. Crick in my neck? Double check.
"Mom! You scared me! Why are you so loud?"
She rolled her eyes. "That's my thanks for bringing home Chinese food?"
Immediately, I stood up like I'd been summoned. "Say no more."
We settled into dinner while the TV still played clips from the show. My mom looked at me with a curious squint. "You really thinking of applying to this madness?"
I didn't even hesitate. "I might not be on Season One, but if I keep reviewing this thing, they'll come crawling for me by Season Two."
She laughed, half proud, half horrified. "Only my daughter would plan her rise to fame over boxed noodles and soft boys."
"Mom," I said, mouth full, "it's called strategy."
I didn't mention Eric again that night. But I thought about him, that smooth entrance, that quiet confidence, the way he barely needed to speak to command attention.
He wasn't just a character. He was an opportunity. Whether it was for love, clout, or chaos... I knew this wouldn't be the last time I talked about him.
Or maybe — just maybe — the next time I'd talk to him.
On camera.
Under the same roof.
With a million people watching.