2025 – Alaska
If you ever wanted to know what poverty smells like, it's equal parts instant ramen, chipped nail polish, and regret.
That's my life in 2025.
I live out of one duffel bag, a laptop, and an emergency stash of peanut butter packets stolen from diners. My entire apartment is basically a glorified storage closet: one room, a single window that stares into a brick wall like it's perpetually grounded, and a heater that wheezes like it's dying of asthma. I've decorated with… nothing. Because decorations mean permanence, and permanence means you'll owe someone money.
And me? I like to be ready to vanish.
Call it a side effect of divorced parents who treated custody battles like the Olympics, combined with growing up poor enough that moving every six months was just… Tuesday. My mother thought life was an art piece titled "Reinvent Yourself While Broke," and my father thought "child support" was a myth invented by the government. Result: Alaska = chronically broke, chronically skeptical, and chronically suspicious of IKEA furniture because it looks too permanent.
So yeah. Remote freelancing fits me like a second skin. I edit manuscripts, articles, blogs, basically anything that needs commas untangled. My coworkers are all faceless emails, and that's exactly how I like it. Antisocial? Maybe. But if people can't find you, they also can't ask you for favors or "just crash for a week."
Which is why I nearly had a heart attack when my email pinged that morning. Not because it was an overdue invoice – those are my love language – but because of the subject line:
You're Invited! – To Cynthia & Mark's Wedding
I dropped my spoon into my ramen cup, splashing broth across my laptop keyboard. "Oh no," I whispered. "Not you."
Cynthia. My college roommate. My nemesis. My… accidental savior.
Our relationship was the human equivalent of a spicy burrito: part delicious, part dangerous, and guaranteed to give me heartburn. She'd been the rich one, I'd been the scholarship goblin. She wore silk pajamas, I wore thrift store sweats. She had a skincare fridge. I had – get this – a single bar of soap for face and hair.
And then, just to spice things up, she slept with my boyfriend sophomore year. Yep. Took my sorry excuse of a man and served him up with whipped cream.
Naturally, I vowed eternal vengeance. Or at least eternal ignoring.
But then. Senior year. Some guy at a frat party thought "no" meant "convince harder," and I nearly found myself in a corner with more trauma than tequila. Cynthia appeared out of nowhere, all claws and fury, and went full Mortal Kombat on him. She walked away with a split lip and a fractured wrist. And me? I walked away with the kind of guilt that clings like a ghost.
So, where does that leave us now, ten years later? A love-hate dynamic. Like… I'd punch her in the face for fun, but I'd also bail her out of jail without question.
And she's getting married.
I leaned back on my squeaky chair, slurping ramen and staring at the invitation. Wedding. Vows. Happiness. Did she even deserve it? Did I deserve to attend?
My brain threw out the usual list of reasons not to go:
I don't do people.I don't do fancy clothes.I don't own fancy clothes.I'd look like a homeless raccoon next to her curated Barbie Dream Life.…also, I really don't do people.
But then came the other side. The one that still remembered her blood dripping on her silk top, the way she stood between me and the dangerous man like a shield. The way she muttered, "Don't let him win, Alaska," before passing out cold.
I sighed so hard my ramen noodles shivered.
"Goddammit, Cynthia," I muttered. "You just had to go and get married, didn't you?"
And just then, as if it could hear my internal conflict, my phone rang. Which is already a crime, because I don't answer calls.
But the caller ID? Cynthia.
I considered tossing the phone into the hallway trash chute. Unfortunately, curiosity is my toxic trait. So I answered.
"Alaskaaaaa!" she sang, like she was auditioning for Mean Girls: The Musical.
"What," I groaned, already regretting.
"Forgive me yet?"
"No."
"Ugh, you're impossible. I slept with your boyfriend ten years ago. He had the jawline of a thumb drive. Let it go."
"Cynthia, you don't let go of betrayal. You preserve it in salt like a pickle. It's my hobby."
She laughed. Of course she laughed. Cynthia had the kind of laugh that could get her out of parking tickets. "Fine, fine. But remember who threw herself like a Marvel stunt double in front of your attacker at that frat party? You owe me, pickle queen."
"Debatable. You ruined my love life and my trust issues. Kind of a twofer."
"Still. Fractured wrist."
"Split lip."
"Hospital bill."
I sighed so loudly, it could've powered a wind turbine. "Cynthia, I live like a raccoon in witness protection. What do you want from me?"
"Oh, nothing major," she said sweetly. Which, coming from her, meant absolute chaos. "Just… come to my wedding."
I rolled my eyes and somehow choked on a noodle doing so. "No," I croaked.
"It's my wedding! You know – white dress, vows, champagne fountain, me glowing like a rich b*tch goddess. The usual."
"Cynthia, I don't do people."
"You do me."
"That's different. You're – " I flailed for words. "– a mistake I'm already committed to."
"Aw. Sentimental. But no excuses, darling. I need you there. For moral support. For bridal party sass. For the drama. Also, I refuse to get married without someone rolling their eyes in the back row. It keeps me grounded."
"I don't have clothes for a wedding. Unless your dress code is depressed librarian."
"Perfect. You'll be my edgy contrast. Think of it as performance art."
"I repeat, I'll look like a homeless raccoon."
"Then you'll be the cutest homeless raccoon, and everyone will adore you."
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Why are you like this?"
"Because you love me," she purred. "Also, because deep down you know you'll say yes. You're addicted to chaos, and nothing says chaos like my wedding."
The worst part? She was right. I could feel the reluctant "fine" forming in my throat like acid reflux.
"Goddammit, Cynthia," I muttered.
"Is that a yes?" she gasped dramatically.
"It's a… maybe."
"That's legally binding in friendship court. You're in. Oh my God, Alaska's coming to my wedding!" she squealed, then hung up before I could rescind.
I stared at the dead line, noodles wilting in my chopsticks.
I didn't do weddings. I didn't do dresses. I didn't do people. But Cynthia had once bled for me, and somewhere in my shriveled heart, that counted for something.
So yeah. I was going.
Would I regret it? Absolutely. Would I probably run into someone I'd rather never see again? (College people, hello). Double absolutely. Would I do it anyway? …Sigh.
Yeah.
Now all I had to do was:
Find a dress that didn't scream I live in a cardboard box.Comb my hair. (Optional, but probably advised.)Try not to punch anyone during the bouquet toss.
Easy.
And hey – if it all went to hell, at least I was already packed to run.