The Paradise Problem

by Christina Lauren

I press my forehead to the wall, wishing I could melt into it and live in the building’s foundation for the rest of my days. I would make such a good ghost.

Why did I say that? No one handed me this shovel, but I’m digging my own grave anyway.

Google tells me that West is the son of a billionaire, and a glance at my banking app tells me I am a thirty-dollaraire.

“Oh. Power. I like it. I’m not sure how to wield it, but I like it.

Being an artist is sometimes about not being afraid to do it badly first.

Is that why, in the end, I chose art? Because it’s forgiving?

And Reddit is both a trash fire and an invaluable resource.”

I have always been an oversharer. Whether I slept badly, am experiencing some minor tummy upset, or have strong emotions about the ending of a long-running TV series, chances are, if you ask, I’m going to tell you how I feel.

I’m your ride-or-die, West Weston.

“Imagine we get locked in one of those,” Anna says, “and they find us days later, wearing salami and cheese to stay warm.” “Someone should study your brain,” I say, tugging the freezer door open.