"Help me, you have to click this," Annie's voice pinged at 2:07 a.m.
"Annie, it's two in the morning," I type back, thumbs moving too fast for my brain. I keep the message casual because she sends drama like she sends cupcakes—frequently and with extra frosting.
"Please," her voice message says. "It's viral gold. I need a witness. Do NOT be a boring adult."
I tap the link without thinking, the glow from my phone painting my living room blue. It’s a montage reel—an influencer eating a mystery donut, spilling coffee on a suit, a squirrel stealing a mic. Funny. Dumb. Exactly Annie's taste.
"Forwarding to a few people who will appreciate art," I tell her, and use the group I saved for late-night nonsense: "StreamWave Crew," "Coffee Club," and a contact I labeled "Subway Guy" because he once lectured me about proper headphone etiquette on the 3 train.
My finger hovers, then I decide to be reckless. I add one more name—old habit of joking that I could bounce between my private life and my showbiz persona. I forward to "Colt Chase."
There’s a second of satisfaction—two taps, a small thrill. I don't expect a reply. Colt is one of those people who replies once a month and only to clinical things like charts or shift swaps. Polite, distant, impossible to read.
"Done," I send into the group chat.
Annie's blue bubble pops up almost immediately. "You
