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It’s midnight, I’m with Sam and Harry standing outside the garage while everyone else gets drunk and high inside. I tell Harry that I had a dream about him last night. I can’t remember why, but he was comforting me. He says he’s glad that he was there. I don’t know who changed the conversation, it was probably me. I’m talking a lot more than I used to. But, now, we’re talking about how sometimes we can’t tell our dreams from our days. I think I spend most days in the summer, dreaming.

It’s almost 2 AM and we’ve decided that we need more beer. I offer to drive to the 7/11 and pick it up. Sam and Penina say that they’ll come with me. We’re walking to the car when everyone else shouts for us to wait. It’s only a few minutes away, but I guess everyone is either bored or restless or needs something. It’s somewhere to go. I buy a soda and a donut for my sister. On the way back, I slow down for the dip in the road, remembering the night I went speeding through it. It was dark and we all hit our heads on the ceiling.

I’m at a party. I don’t want to be here. I’ve spent the last hour walking up and down the stairs. Sam and I are waiting outside the house while everyone else does drugs in the bathroom. We can’t find the people we came with. We’re back at the car, so Sam can roll a joint, and I can catch my breath. I’m waiting for our friends to return, so we can leave, drive off, go somewhere else when I get a phone call.

I find her down the street, crying behind the cars. I sit with her on the curb until her uber arrives. She keeps apologizing for crying. I don’t say what I’m thinking, which is that someone always has to cry at the party. Instead, I tell her it’s fine. I don’t tell her that this is the only part of the night that I’ve enjoyed. Sitting on the curb, escaping the people I don’t know and don’t want to get to know.

I don’t know why I always feel upset about not going out more, when truthfully, I never like it when I do. Especially not in LA. She leaves, and I find my friends and ask if we should leave. It’s less of a question and more of a statement. We get in the car and drive back home. I look out the window, this is my favorite freeway in Los Angeles, especially at night. Along the hillside, I can see all the lights of the nearby neighborhoods merging into one. It’s 2 AM when I get home. I’m sunburnt and too tired to take my makeup off. My stomach hurts. I can’t deny my love for Los Angeles. My daydreams are made up of this city. Even when I spend my nights alone or at parties and clubs that I want to leave upon arrival. I can’t help but love it.

I’m in therapy, talking about nothing in particular. My therapist says that some of us want to be grounded and some of us want to have wings, to feel like we can fly. I think I want to be grounded so that I can feel safe enough to fly. Apparently, fear of flying is associated with deep rooted control issues. It makes sense. I’m 22 and sober. And I was never really addicted to anything other than control.

My sister and I are looking at plane tickets to New York. I tell her that I need more time to think about it. I say it’s because of the cost and not knowing what I’ll do there, but the truth is, I don’t want to leave. When I wake up, I check the flight, it’s sold out. Maybe it’s a sign. I don’t think it is though. It says more about me than the universe. My sister is the kind of person who wants to feel like she can fly. I am not.