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NOT WHAT I’M HERE FOR

A few days later

The greasy smell of bacon hits me before my eyes are even open, thick and cloying. At first, it’s not entirely unpleasant—I love bacon as much as the next person. But there’s something about the way it’s being cooked now that twists my stomach, making it hard to breathe through the heaviness in the air. I pull the blanket over my face, trying to escape it, but it’s already in my nose, clinging to the walls and fabric of the apartment.

The distinct scent of hash browns joins the mix, and for a brief moment, my heart lifts. I adore hash browns. But then I remember where I am. The hope dissipates. I already know what I’m going to find when I walk into the kitchen. It’s not crispy, golden nuggets of potato cooked to perfection. It’s going to be something drowned—no, suffocated—in unnecessary oil.

I rub my eyes, stretching as I rise reluctantly from the mattress. The air conditioning hums softly in the background, the room dim because the curtains stay perpetually drawn. My feet shuffle across the cool floor as I make my way to the kitchen.

And there it is—exactly what I expected. Matty is swaying next to the stove, humming to himself as if he's headlining some concert only he’s attending. The pan in front of him looks like a death trap—half full of shimmering grease. Flaccid bacon curls at the edges and sputters along the sides, swimming lazily in oil. Hash browns sit in the center, bloated and lifeless, like tiny fried corpses.

Not to be dramatic, but it’s one of the most disgusting things I’ve seen cooked in my life. The oil reaches halfway up the pan, the entire setup one wrong move away from an apartment fire. It’s not even deep frying—it’s some bastardization between shallow frying and pure chaos. I shudder, imagining flames licking the cabinets while Matty, oblivious, sings along to his own drunken soundtrack, even though it’s only morning.

He catches me standing there and offers a lopsided grin, bobbing to a rhythm only he can hear. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes glassy—definitely still drunk from last night. I lean against the doorway, trying to mask my disgust, but the greasy air presses against my skin like a sticky film.

“Morning,” he says cheerily, flipping the bacon with a spatula that sends tiny drops of scalding oil flying across the stove.

“Morning,” I mumble back, trying to ignore the wave of nausea building in my stomach.

I want to be grateful. I am grateful—Matty didn’t have to let us crash here. But God, it’s getting harder every day.

The toilet seat always has a puddle of urine on it, the seat often left up, and I’ve fallen partially into the bowl more than once in the middle of the night.

The incidents where Matty shits his pants in the middle of the night are becoming more frequent than anyone should be comfortable with.

And the mean-spirited jabs—half jokes, half serious—are starting to wear me down. It’s the way Matty snickers while making cutting remarks about everything from the skanky girl Timmy used to sleep with, to his first girlfriend from high school, as if it’s all one big joke. Over and over again. A joke I’m supposed to laugh at, even though I hate every second of it .

And then there’s this—his greasy, heart-clogging monstrosities that turn my stomach. I stare at the mess on the stove and feel my resentment bubble up, just like the oil in the pan.

I think about my apartment—the nice one I was so excited to move into. The one Timmy got us kicked out of. I gave that up. For him. For this. For greasy bacon mornings and shart jokes, comments about other girls Timmy’s been involved with, a shared room, and a mattress on Matty’s floor.

And it’s not just the apartment—it’s everything. I gave up the peace I thought I’d find on this island, the dream of mornings spent writing by the ocean and evenings sipping cocktails at sunset. Instead, I’m here, marinating in frustration, inhaling secondhand grease and regret.

And the worst part? I let it happen.

I get so wrapped up in this need to prove to myself and others that I’m not materialistic. That I can live simply, without the trappings of comfort or luxury. That things don’t matter to me, and money doesn’t matter. But maybe they do. Maybe it’s okay to want nice things, to live somewhere peaceful, to feel like I deserve more than this chaotic mess.

Timmy sees this conflict in me—I’m sure of it. And I think he plays on it. He knows exactly how to push the right buttons, to make me feel guilty for wanting more, for craving something better.

“Food’s almost ready if you want some,” Matty says proudly, oblivious to the war waging in my mind. He plops another soggy hash brown into the pan with a splash, and oil splatters across the stove and the countertop. It’s everywhere—like my feelings, leaking out in ways I can’t control.

I swallow the lump rising in my throat. I hate that I’m so affected by something as simple as breakfast. But it’s not just breakfast—it’s the whole picture. It’s the weight of everything I’ve sacrificed, everything I’ve settled for, and the creeping realization that I don’t even recognize myself in this life I’ve chosen.

The oil pops again, and Matty laughs as though nothing in the world is wrong. As if this is just another day, another breakfast, another joke. But to me, it feels like the culmination of every bad decision I’ve made since meeting Timmy. And it’s becoming harder to convince myself that this is the life I want—or that I can keep pretending it’s enough.