Keyframe

Celebrity Status

In the last few years of my life, I remember feeling like I was in purgatory: sitting around waiting for someone to diagnose me and dreading my next spin on this endless rollercoaster. The flailing highs, the bottomless lows...I can't do it anymore. I just can't.

Here, I have the opportunity to turn things around. Just because I'm bipolar doesn't mean that I'm doomed for the rest of my life—things can get better—and I'll make sure they do if it kills me. But medication and therapy are just where it starts, the first steps in a long journey. I'm a little more daunted by the idea of changing the parts of myself that I hate the most—the flaws that I can't pin on a diagnosis.

Recently, I've been infatuated with the idea of permanence: a girl that cares about me as more than a trophy or a plaything, healthy friendships that stay in my life forever, and a diligent focus on my classes instead of relying on luck and natural talent.

As I watch the suds disappear down the drain, I inhale slowly. All of that is easier said than done.

When I open the door to our room again, my roommate Miguel is finally awake and sitting up in his bed. I met him yesterday, and, since he moved in two days before me, he dedicated his time to helping in whatever way he could.

He's incredibly nice, but I'm not sure how to feel about that after spending my whole life with Jordan as my best friend. Years of snake bites in your back will do that to you.

Miguel sees me, breaking out into a smile before clapping his hands and pointing at me.

"Yoooo...Alejandro! Good morning, brah!"

He has the most California surfer-bro dialect I've ever heard, with open body language that makes it seem like we're old friends instead of complete strangers. I've only known him for about twenty-four hours, and yet he has no intention of starting our relationship with an awkward phase—or even a period of observation to figure me out. 

"Morning," I answer, my voice naturally a lot quieter than his. "Did I wake you up?"

"Yeah, actually—I heard you talking to your mom. But it's okay; I need to get to the gym anyway." He picks up his water bottle, tapping the lid a few times before standing. "Random question—I know you said you were from New York, but the Spanish, and your accent...?"

He trails off, gesturing to his mouth, and it takes me a moment to realize what he's asking.

"Oh...I'm Colombian. I was born and raised in New York, but...between my mom and a ton of summers in Bogotá, I still got the accent."

"Really?!" His face lights up in recognition, although I'm still at a loss as to why. "My mom's family is from Brazil; we go to South America all the time."

"Well..." I pause, struggling over the natural hostility that's been beaten into my lexicon over the years. "Then we're practically cousins."

The line doesn't come out like I wanted to—it's dripping with sarcasm and a little bit of mockery that instantly make me regret my words. He's just trying to be nice, but I'm so hardwired for competition and backhandedness that I'm going to ruin our friendship before it even starts.

"I know right?!" he says, completely unfazed, and claps me on the shoulder before heading to the door. "That's so sick."

I can't help but laugh a little when he's gone, completely inexperienced with someone so recklessly positive. While he certainly has a lot he could brag about, he doesn't. He's just...good. Nice.

Even though he's at one of the top schools in the country, I have a sneaking suspicion that there's just one braincell bouncing around his head like a ping-pong ball. According to the abridged backstory I got during move in, he's one of the top soccer players in the state, they offered him a scholarship, and he took the bait.