The Pyramid Scheme

My phone buzzed for the third time in two minutes. Another Instagram story from Jordan—sun-soaked beach pics with the popular crew, the ones I used to call 'the pyramid' because that's exactly what they were. A carefully constructed hierarchy where Jordan, my former best friend, had apparently leveled up.

'You need these vitamins,' my mom said, dropping a bottle on my desk. 'For stress.'

I stared at the iPhone screen, Jordan's post captioned: 'living my best life.' Meanwhile, I was hostage to a neurotic orange tabby named Pyramid—who yes, I'd ironically named after the social structure I couldn't crack.

Pyramid knocked the vitamin bottle off my desk.

'You and me both,' I muttered, scratching behind his ears. At least his toxicity was literal hair.

The thing about friendship pyramids? They're built on someone's back. Jordan's ascent meant my displacement, but I couldn't hate her. I'd seen it coming freshman year, when she started trading her authentic weirdness for curated coolness. One strategically posted outfit at a time.

My phone lit up again. Jordan: 'coffee this week?'

I hesitated. The old me would've said yes, desperate for scraps. But Pyramid chose that moment to bite my ankle affectionately, like: *have some dignity, human.*

'Actually,' I typed, 'I'm good.' Then I muted our chat.

Pyramid purred, vibrating against my leg. I took the vitamins my mom had given me—what the hell, maybe I did need them—and opened a new document. I was going to write about this. About friendship as architecture, about the way we build ourselves into shapes that don't fit, about how sometimes the realest thing in your life is a cat who hates everyone but you.

The pyramid didn't need to collapse. I just needed to stop climbing it.