Riverdale, the Bronx.
Anya flopped onto her large, pink princess bed. Phone in hand, she tossed and turned, unable to find a comfortable position.
Her finger hovered over the phone screen for a long time. She would open the chat, type something, delete it, and repeat the cycle over and over.
['Congratulations on being #1 in the nation! I knew you could do it.']
'No, no, that makes me sound like some cheap girl who only latches onto people after they become successful.'
['Hey! How have you been?']
'That's no good either. Would that make him think I don't pay any attention to him at all?'
The thought sent a gust of wind through Anya's heart, as chaotic and unsettling as the late autumn gales blowing across the Hudson Bridge outside.
Her long, slender legs kicked unconsciously at the air, wrinkling the pink silk sheets she was tossing and turning on.
