Pyramid Scheme Heartbreak

The text came at 11:47 PM — right when I was overthinking that awkward moment in lunch where I'd laughed too loud at Jordan's joke.

"u up? wanna make bank this summer? 💰"

It was from Jordan. THE Jordan. The one whose hair fell across their eyes in that way that made my stomach do actual cartwheels. The one I'd been lowkey obsessed with since September.

My thumbs were shaking. "yeah whats up"

"this wellness company. all natural, crazy profit. my cousin made 4k last month. we could be a team 😘"

I should've known. But my brain was running on three hours of sleep and pure teenage delusion. The next day, Jordan sat with me at lunch. ME. The invisible kid. They explained the whole thing — this papaya-based vitamin supplement that was "literally changing lives."

"It's not a pyramid scheme," Jordan said, sliding a glossy brochure across the table. "It's a multi-level marketing opportunity. There's a difference."

"Sure," I said, because I was sixteen and completely capable of convincing myself of anything if it meant Jordan would keep looking at me like that.

Two weeks later, I'd blown my entire savings — money I'd been saving for concert tickets — on thirty boxes of papaya vitamin gummies that my mom said looked like "expensive candy." Jordan had promised to help me sell them. We were gonna be a "power couple" of entrepreneurs.

Then Jordan ghosted me.

Not like, busy ghosted. Like, deleted-our-conversation-and-sat-six-tables-away-at-lunch ghosted.

I found out from Maya that Jordan had "moved on to other opportunities" — which turned out to be skincare MLMs with the seniors who actually had cars.

So there I was, stuck with $400 worth of papaya vitamins that nobody wanted, and a heart that felt like it'd been put through a blender. My dad found me in my room, staring at the ceiling fan.

"What's with the depression arc?" he asked, leaning against my doorframe.

I told him everything — the scheme, the gummies, the utter humiliation of it all. He didn't laugh. He just sat on the edge of my bed and said, "You know what the crazy part is? You're not the first person to lose money chasing a feeling. And you won't be the last."

We ended up eating the gummies together while watching bad movies. They tasted like artificial fruit and regret, but he made me laugh so hard I snorted.

"Lesson learned," he said, popping another one. "Next time someone offers you a spot in a pyramid, just remember: the only thing at the top is more disappointment."

I still see Jordan in the halls. They're doing great, apparently. But I'm doing okay too. I've got $47 in my savings account again, and I learned that some things — like actual connections — can't be bought, sold, or manufactured.

Even if they come in really nice packaging.