Page 12 of Filthy Rich Brother's Best Friends

I don’t remember the last time I got eight hours of sleep. Or six. Or, honestly, more than four in a row without waking up mid-dream because I forgot to schedule a class sub or reply to a billing issue or call someone to repair the busted reformer.

My brain doesn’t shut off anymore. It just loops—client emails, money panic, playlist updates, and the echo of that Yelp review that called my voice “distractingly chipper.”

I’m teaching way too many classes, fielding DMs from people asking for free sessions in exchange for “exposure,” and trying to manage three different calendars—none of which sync correctly. Every time I post to social media, it feels like shouting into the void. I know I should plan content in advance, but I can barely plan dinner. Scratch that—I haven’t had dinner in four days unless popcorn counts.

The worst part is the duct tape. Not metaphorical. Actual duct tape. One of the reformers keeps losing its grip, and until I can afford a new footbar, I’m literally taping the damn thing in place before every class. It’s fine. Totally fine.

At home, it’s not much better. The vibe in the house has changed. Blaire leaves passive-aggressive sticky notes on the fridge now. “Don’t forget to replace the almond milk if you finish it!” Except I haven’t touched the almond milk. I can’t afford almond milk.

Gigi has started using the word “aesthetic” way too often. “I just think the kitchen would look more on-brand if we stuck to neutrals.” I’m not sure if she’s talking about dishes or dish towels, but either way, I no longer feel safe leaving my rainbow Tupperware on the drying rack.

And the worst part? They’re both pretending like nothing’s wrong. All while slowly turning the volume up on some psychological torture loop that ends with me second-guessing everything I do or say.

Last night, I made the mistake of asking if someone could clean the bathroom this week. Gigi smiled, then said, “Of course,” in the tone people use when they mean, “Absolutely not, and also I hate you.” Blaire chimed in with something about how I “seem stressed lately,” which is rich coming from someone who has a full-time assistant for her nonexistent job and considers brunch a form of cardio.

I miss how this place used to feel like home.

Back when we still shared takeout on the couch and screamed over reality TV and swapped clothes before dates. Now I’m always walking on eggshells.

And I can’t even do anything about it. I can’t afford to move—I can barely afford to stay. Gigi’s family owns the place, which means she’s not just my roommate. She’s my landlord. And she wields that power with the kind of subtle cruelty you usually only see in historical dramas.

It never used to feel like this. The gap between us. The unspoken math of who comes from money and who absolutely doesn’t.

Back in college, the thought never occurred to me. We were all living off instant noodles and cheap vodka, pretending our thrift store finds were oh-so chic. Gigi made jokes about trust fund babies. Blaire complained about her bitchy, entitled sorority sisters.

But now?

Now, they wear their wealth like a second skin. Invisible until you’re standing next to it, suddenly aware that your leggings are from a clearance rack and theirs were hand-delivered in tissue paper. I used to think we were just different flavors of ambitious. Turns out, I’ve been scraping together a future through sheer grit while they treat life like it comes with a concierge.

I tiptoe in after work, hoping to avoid conversation, but the second I close the front door, I hear the unmistakable chirp of Blaire’s voice.

“You’re home late again.”

I resist the urge to say, “Yeah, that’s what happens when you run a business and don’t just post selfies of yourself all day.” Instead, I force a smile and mumble something about scheduling chaos.

She gives me a slow once-over and shrugs. “You just look…depleted.”

“I’m just tired.”

“You really need to sleep more. Try taking a day off every now and then. It’ll do you a world of good,” she says. She gives me a smug look like she just solved all my problems and disappears back into her room.

I shuffle to the kitchen and pull open the fridge. There’s a half-drunk green juice, a bottle of champagne, and a sticky note on my last yogurt:Please get more of these to share.My stomach turns, but not from hunger.

I shut the fridge door harder than necessary.

In the laundry room, I strip off my studio clothes and toss them into the basket. My limbs are sore, my lower back aches, and my left eye is starting to twitch.

I get a whiff of myself and think about taking a shower. But I don’t. I just lean against the washer and close my eyes.

I’m so tired.

I wish it were the kind of tired that clears up with a good night’s sleep. But this is soul tired. Because I’m carrying too many things and none of them seem to get lighter, no matter how hard I try.

I’m still standing there in my sports bra and underwear, hair stuck to the back of my neck, when Gigi bursts into the laundry room.

“New neighbors are moving in next door,” she says, barely able to contain her excitement. “Hot. I am totally sleeping with the sexy one. Who am I kidding though? They’re all sexy.”

She doesn’t notice—or just doesn’t care—that I’m standing there half-naked and visibly fried. She just keeps going, her voice bouncing off the tile with all the enthusiasm of someone who never misses an afternoon nap. “I invited them to a BBQ tonight. You’re doing burgers, right?”