A girl, let’s call her Fashion, invited me over to meet her hamster. The hamster lived in a large clear plastic box, like a large storage container, but it had no top. At first, this startled me. Where was the top? Then I remembered hamsters couldn’t fly. This hamster lived in its plastic house without a roof on her kitchen counter and she seemed to be very loved, the hamster did, by my new friend Fashion. We talked on the couch for a long time. She showed me some of her art. We looked at a big art book. We talked about her brother and her mother and the wedding she was attending over the weekend. Then I put on my boots and thanked her for having me over and left. I thought little more of our time together. Fashion was a friend. I hoped she knew I felt that way. Then she sent me some photos. First, a photo of the bride and groom. The groom was her brother and I told Fashion he was a 10. Later that night she sent a photo of herself in a dress and makeup, making provocative eye contact with herself in a bathroom mirror. My instinct was to ask her some questions. Are you in a bathroom? Are you having a good time? Instead, I did the normal thing. I wrote, You look great, you’re a 10.5. She said no more after this and I was glad our chat had ended. Days later, when she was back in the city, she wanted to make plans. What’s up? she wrote, very open-ended. I was annoyed. I was busy. I had a life. I had friends. Why had I even tried to get to know this person—a stranger? I wrote back saying that I was busy but we should get together soon. She tried again a few days later. Hey was all she wrote and once again, I was annoyed. I told her I was busy. It wasn’t a good time. She was upset. I’d disappointed her, she said, two times now, and it wasn’t good for her mental health. Okay, I told her, then we can just take some time off and stop texting. No. That wasn’t what she wanted either. She just. She tried to explain. She just thought we needed to re-evaluate what we were now that she was back from her trip. I told her kindly that I saw her as a friend. She wrote back, Do you call your friends a 10.5? It felt mean, this last comment, and it followed me for days. I’d given someone false hope, which was cruel, but at the same time, I cling to every little hope the world has offered me, and I don’t blame the world when those hopes blow up in my face. It’s just another part of life, hoping and failing, and even this story, which isn’t really a story, has nothing to give. Not even hope.

Erica Peplin is a queer fiction writer from Detroit with stories published in n+1, McSweeney’s, American Chordata and Joyland Magazine. Her writing has also appeared in The Village Voice and The Brooklyn Rail. You can find more of her work at ericapeplin.com.