Page 5 of Lucy and Her Wicked Three

When he chokes me, it scares me, just a little. But that fear overrides my overthinking brain, and I can let go in those moments. All my stresses, my anxieties, my constant worrying—it all disappears.

Not realizing how exhausted I was last night, I crashed hard after we had sex.

I woke up to Mateo tucking me in. It's still dark out and I yawn and look up, seeing he's already dressed for work. He says nothing; he rarely does. But I can see the love in his eyes. I can feel it.

I can also see a million words on the tip of his tongue, but he keeps them buried and leans down, kissing my forehead before saying goodbye. A strange sense of unease hangs like a gray cloud, and ‌watching him walk out of the sparsely decorated bedroom pricks at my heart.

My anxiety is typically manageable. Ironically, my social media platform is one thing I use to help manage it, even though it absolutely also makes it worse.

I love to post tips and tricks that I've used to manage my anxiety. If I learn a new breathing technique or find an exercise that helps me, I'll share it. But then, I get a little obsessed over how many likes the post got, which worsens my anxiety, defeating the purpose. It's a vicious cycle, and the irony isn't lost on me.

Regardless, I try not to post about anxiety too often; I don't want people to think I don't have it under control. I'm ZenInTheCity, after all. Big smiles, positive affirmations. What would people think if they discovered how stressed I was every time I posted a selfie with a giant smile?

Mateo's got me a little edgy this morning, though, so I direct some of that energy into self-care. Drawing a bath, the jets swirl and splash the water while it fills. I take pictures of the bubble bath products, candles, and herbs artfully resting on the tub's edge. I don't have contracts with all the companies, but I get a lot of products sent to me for free, so I do my best to use and post about them as often as possible.

Feeling slightly more relaxed, I pull on a pair of running shorts, a strappy bra and my favorite sneakers. Phone tucked securely in my pocket, I peek in the mirror. Just enough makeup to look like my skin is flawless, and then I'm off.

As the day goes on, I feel more and more like myself. I run through the streets, ending up in Sunrise Park. When I find a quiet copse of trees to record next to, I spend hours taking pictures and making videos of some of my favorite stretches, saving them to post for later. I order a vegan taco from a street vendor and sit on a bench editing pictures.

It's late by the time I head back to the apartment. I'm exhausted and decide to catch a ride instead of running home. Acab finally picks me up after I wave about like a frantic tourist, too tired to wait for an Uber. We pull up in front of my building, and I pay the driver and head inside, my steps slower and more controlled than when I hopped in the cab.

Resting my head against the elevator wall, I stare at the tacky, gold-plated metal, playing with different versions of my smile in the reflection. I'm pretty good at wearing one, even when I don't feel so happy. The doors open on fifth, and I straighten and pretend I wasn't making faces at myself like a massive dork.

"Evenin' y'all," I offer a tired but genuine smile at my new neighbors, an elderly couple I've noticed in the building on other nights when I was coming home with Mateo. Old money's my guess, dressed to the nines, looking like they're coming from a dinner party, the woman rocking serious Iris Apfel vibes. She gives my appearance a once-over, disapproval pursing her lips. She doesn't smile back, but that's okay. Not everyone practices smiling as much as I do. They get off the floor below my stop.

The elevator silently lifts, and a heavy sigh escapes me. The empty metal box pops open on the top floor, and I step out, pausing to take a deep breath and a moment of gratitude, the buzzing nerves under my skin slowly dissipating.

To say I have complete control over my anxiety is like saying my naturally sunny disposition is performative. I can't help it—the sunny disposition or the sometimes crippling anxiety. They just are. I justam. But both make good selling points when you're internet famous, just for being you. Or a hyped-up, majestic version of you.

The anxiety—along with every post I've ever made about managing anxiety, stress, and mental health—is always with me, but I do a damn good job at slapping on a smile and convincing myself and everyone else that those breathing techniques do work. No, seriously, try that weighted blanket; it'll calm your nervous system right down. No time to prep a healthy meal? Trythis meal kit; it's great for you, chock full of nutrients, and will take the stress of decision-making right out of you.

Feeling calmer, I let myself into the apartment, knowing it'll be quiet and empty on the other side of the door. My footsteps echo on the marble tile as I shuffle down the darkened hall, mail stuffed under one arm, juggling keys and my phone with the other.

I don't turn on the light just yet, letting the glittering Port City skyline light my way. The newness of the uptown apartment hasn't worn off on me. Every time I take in this view—as I exit the hallway and emerge into the recessed living room lined with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city—I'm giddy that I get to livehere. It's a long way from that double-wide I grew up in down south.

Mateo texted an hour ago, letting me know he'd be working late tonight. Again.

He works late every night, so the fact that he texted really means he'll be working so late he may not come home at all. One night, a few months ago, when he said the same thing, I popped by his office under the guise of bringing him dinner. Our relationship was new, and admittedly, I was a little insecure. But sure enough, once the security guard let me into the building and up to the fiftieth floor, there was Mateo in his corner office, crunching numbers and tearing his hair out, stressing over the stock market as it opened somewhere far from here. I held up a bag of greasy takeout, and the relief on his face made me feel ashamed for mistrusting him.

Still, sometimes I can't help but think that if I swung by his office every time he said he was working late, I might not always find him there. I've never smelled another woman's perfume on his collar. I've never found any indication that he sleeps around. But he keeps secrets.

Dropping my keys, purse, and mail on the pristine white marble countertop, I head to our bedroom.Ourbedroom—it's a trip to think about. Two months ago, four months after we met, Mateo asked me to move in with him. I was cautiously optimistic about this mysterious man I had fallen for.

On the one hand, he had this gorgeous apartment, and I was crazy about him.

On the other hand, the apartment looked staged—decorated in an impersonal style, like he didn't live here—no personal effects or pictures.

All his clothes are here. His fancy watches, his toothbrush. And except for the nights he works late, he always comes home at night. But the apartment never felt likehis.

When I asked him about it, he shrugged and said he didn't like clutter.

Never mind that he has no friends over. In fact, he never talks about having friends. Maybe he doesn't have any. I'm sure I'm overthinking things, as usual—the curse of the anxious—creating problems where they don't yet exist.

I don't bother turning on the light. The casting glow from the city that never sleeps is enough. I shuffle through my drawer, finding the swimsuit I was looking for. It's on the sporty side, like most of my clothes, with lots of dainty straps giving it a hint of sex appeal, perfect for tonight's video.

It's late, and I'm tired, and I've been working all day. But I need to finish a few more ready-made posts so I can relax tomorrow. Stripping down and putting on the swimsuit, I make my way back down the hall, bare feet slapping on the cold floor, past the kitchen into the living room, letting myself out on the terrace.

Assembling my recording equipment, I prop my phone up just right and critique my reflection in selfie mode. Untying my ponytail, shaking my long hair loose, letting my white-blondelocks fall down my back, I lean in and wipe some of the eyeliner from under my eyes clean. Fortunately, the contouring makeup and false eyelashes take actual effort to remove, so I still look fresh as a daisy. Nothing left to do but turn my smile back on and hit record.

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