The Love Equation

Chapter 1

I manage not to look at my phone for a whole three minutes after waking up this morning. Sadly, I can admit this is an improvement. I've read that checking your phone first thing in the morning can boost anxiety and depression, but I can't kick the habit.

My morning routine: wakeup to my body's internal alarm (my bladder), pretend to meditate for a minute or two (close eyes and try to think about anything other than my current state of being), read a few pages of the book gifted to me by my mother (reread the same paragraph over and over again), and finally, mere minutes after the routine begins, I defeatedly reach for my phone. The Elon Musks and Jeff Bezoses of the world - those who preach a healthy balance of meditation and morning reflection - would be extremely disappointed in my lifestyle choices. Although to my knowledge, neither Elon Musk nor Jeff Bezos have been dumped on national television recently.

After opening up my phone, I pretend I don't see the various text messages still sitting in my inbox left unread. It's not that I don't want to talk to anyone, I just don't want to talk about IT. Last week's season finale had surprised my friends and family. It's no small feat explaining the extent of cruelty one experiences at the hand of an infamous British bachelor - so I opted not to say anything at all. Thinking only of my present discomfort at the time, I shared the bare bones of the truth upon returning home. Needless to say, I am now paying for this omission. Or I would be.... If I were answering any texts or calls.

Similar to the past seven days, I spare myself the trouble and only look at the messages from my business partner, Celia, whose asking if I can take the lead on hiring a new pastry chef. I know I should say yes - I've admittedly been an absent partner this year - but the thought of leaving my hideaway (my apartment) and facing the world fills me with dread.

I type back a quick response.

'Woke up with another migraine. Can you ask Miles to do it?'

The three dots appear and disappear a few times.

'Will do. Feel better.'

She knows I'm lying, but she's not ready to push me quite yet. And this is why Celia is my closest friend. Even now, after weeks of dropping the ball with our "joint"-venture, she's protecting me, waiting until I'm ready to face the world. This patience may be due in part to the guilt she might be feeling, as Celia had been adamant that I do the show in the first place.

Miles, on the other hand, is avoiding me completely. My best friend since high school, and the current supervisor at the Buzz until he finishes Medical School, Miles has been one of few constants in my life over the years. He finally admitted before I left for filming that he was the person that submitted my application. He'd used my most scandalous photos - a few bikini pictures back from our trip to Hawaii. Not one to admit when he's in the wrong, or one to apologize for that matter, he's taken to avoidance. It seems we're both utilizing that coping mechanism these days.

With a sigh, I close out my messages and open up Twitter. It's not even necessary to type anything into the search bar, my latest searches come up automatically:

#LucyHill

#LucyHillTheLoveEquation

#JamesFreehamandLucyHill

#TheLoveEquation

Even though scrolling through tweets the past few weeks has only caused me to go from one therapy session a week to two, the urge to read viewer's comments on the season trumps the need to protect my mental health. I sift through the various observations, only stopping to fully read the ones that a) villainize he who must not be named or b) impact my already low self-confidence.

It only takes a couple tweets to escalate my depression to full-fledged self-loathing. What the fuck had I been thinking? - Twitter users are begging the question. Knowing I can't answer that for them any sooner than I can figure it out for myself, I decide I've already exceeded my pain tolerance for today. Before I succeed in closing out the app though, one tweet catches my eye.