According to the National Institute of Health, adolescents who regularly use social media are at double the risk of experiencing poor mental health.  

She and I are sitting across from each other, separated by a coffee-stained table. The cafe door swinging open sends a gentle breeze through her long, wavy locks. It’s mesmerizing, as if she washes her hair with the water blessed by Aphrodite’s touch. It drapes over her shoulders effervescently, sleek, and absent of frizz. 

“Lovely meeting you here,” she tells me, her voice soft yet laced with conviction. She gently squeezes my hand on the table, her skin smooth like porcelain—she truly is a doll. Sitting in an aged jacket and jeans that fit her perfectly, she maintains a graceful posture in the chair. Her face still glows even in the poorly lit cafe, no eye bags in sight. 

“Thank you for meeting me,” I respond. “I mean, I know you have a busy schedule.”  

“Yes, there’s been a lot going on as of late. I spent the weekend with a few of my girlfriends, going from a concert to a party to Sunday brunch. Loads of fun!” 

She probably has gone to more places this weekend than I have all month. I wonder if she knows what it’s like to sink in her own bed, to suffocate in the white linens and her own insecurities. We stare at each other, and I imagine inside her head she’s analyzing all that she would change about me if she had the chance. 

“So, what is it that you wanted to chit-chat about?” she asks, the fluorescent lights emphasizing the glitter of her eyeshadow. 

I take a deep breath. “Please teach me how I can be like you.” 

She blinks a couple of times in dismay. “Come again?” 

“How are you the way that you are?”  

Smiling, she runs a spoon along the rim of her tea cup. “How exactly am I in your eyes?” she asks as if she’s fueled by my desperation. 

“The opposite of me.” It’s at that moment I catch a glimpse of myself in the water glass. All I can see is the darkness under my eyes. 

She places her spoon on a folded napkin. Leaning forward, her eyes lock with mine. “Well, why aren’t you enough?” 

How do I tell her that if I just keep busy, if I get outside and choose the road of solace, I do believe I am enough for myself? But as soon as I open my phone and see her beautiful face, I feel myself expanding, leaving a void deep in my chest. 

“I don’t know,” I reply. “I just know there’s an absence of something that everyone swore I would have at this age—a perpetual joy you always seem to carry.” 

Crossing her legs, she notes, “I don’t think there’s such a thing as perpetual joy.” 

We sit in silence. I pick at the skin around my thumb and notice the blue tiles on the ground. “How could you say such a thing, though?” I ask. “Your life is what I chase every moment, even in my sleep.” 

“What do you want me to say to you?” She laughs. “That I think your eyebrows are too thick? That if you got over all of your anxieties, then maybe you’d go to more parties? Those thoughts probably already circulate in your mind enough.” 

My head collapses in my hands. My throat burns, trying to conceal the tears. I stay like this for a while, realizing she’s right. 

I lift my head back up. As my eyes readjust to the light, I notice she’s gone. All that’s in front of me is my phone, her face on the screen.