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Your fingers frantically flew over the keyboard, hearts beating out of your chest.
"Haha, this is hilarious," you laughed maniacally, "I'm number one."
The system made a strange noise and the window popped up again. A list of people who saw you opened up. "Number one in the entire world? This is magnificent!"
The status struck you as too good to be true and you flipped through more people's profiles. "Number four for sure."
The system made a strange noise and the window popped up again. "How did this happen?" your voice went up a few decibels. Are you really number one? You rummaged through a box of polished stones, searching for something to make a charm of your position. "No, no! This can't be! People actually enjoyed it? No, this is an error!" The jeweler had said that this particular shade of green would make a fine charm, but now you just wanted to throw it in the toaster. "I have to say something, but what?" Sweat began to bead on your forehead as the seconds in front of the screen ticked by. "LOL! Haha! Wow, how are you?" You posted your comment and waited for some validation that brought you back to where you were.
People came flooding in. "I'm the number one! That's crazy!"
"Me too!"
"You think this is awesome!"
"Absolutely!"
Your heart pounded like a phoenix. Your head buzzed with a pain similar to an electric shock. Your palms were wet with excitement. You couldn't even breathe in.
"There's one more," the system's voice yelled out. "You're number fifteen." You were in voice-chat with somebody who had seen you at Target the other day. "Number one in the entire world!" You leaned back on your chair, rolling with the chair until you were upside down, your head hanging off the back.
Number one. The woman of your dreams.
Now you could not find any flaws in the four walls that surrounded you. The online community was a fine people. Your piano was perfectly tuned. You loved this city. You were never getting a haircut. You were never ceasing to read all of the books in the library. Never going to sleep.
You were the someone.
You could go on like this forever but all good things must come to an end.
"My phone!" You dropped your head on the desk and pillow-talked it. "Don't do this! Not now!"
The beeps and boops of an incoming message glared at you through the darkness of your monitor. You opened it.
"What's wrong?"
"I'm not number one anymore." You slammed your phone shut and wiped the tears that trickled down your cheek.
"What are you talking about?"
"I got dropped to number six."
"And that's bad because…"
"Because I'm not number one."
The system's window had popped up in your face before you could finish. It showed you a list of people who saw you.
A lump formed in your throat and you choked on a dry sob. "Nine thousand nine hundred and seventy-three shouldn't be this hard."
A message from your friend appeared in front of your face. The message read:
'Hey, I know you're not number one. And based on where your number comes up on the recipient's old wall posts and my own personal opinions, I'm pretty sure you're not going to be number one again. But don't worry, you're awesome: nothing can keep you down and I've seen some pretty sad people on Tinder in my time. I wish you had asked me about your status. I would've tried to comfort you, but nobody else cares about "being number one" as much as you. And you're definitely not a sad person. October 17: you're the number one, and I love you so much. Good luck. 1.8 million people sympathize with you.'
You laughed and sobbed and laughed at the same time.
"How did I become popular?" You said, "You are popular."
Nine thousand, nine hundred and seventy-three had hit you hard. You thought you knew what it was like to be unpopular: the exact opposite of number one. But it seemed like it was just a metaphor for being unloved.
The truth was you were loved, but unappreciated. You were loveless and you were lonely.
Somebody you knew from a group that you were a part of had reached out to you. They had seen your post. They wanted to reach out and talk about it. But, since you were so lonely, you just decided to get a dog. You had been scrolling through pet listings for the past hour. There were some fierce-looking dogs on there. They had all the cuteness of a puppy and the menacing look of an adult pit bull. They looked like the type of dog you could actually live with.
You logged back into the system to see if you could get them to send you a picture.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," you said, "but I need a dog." The window popped up in front of you.
'I'd like to see a picture of the adorable brown pup of mine.' Your friend had responded.
"Thank you!" you said and sent them the picture.
"And that's all," you sent. The text ended there.
"I'm happy," you said, "I'm so happy."
You looked at the feel-good status: ''Number one…'' You closed your eyes to make out his face, but you couldn't see him. He was just a voice in the emptiness.
It was still number six, knowing you. You hoped that this was something that could be fixed. That you could get to number one again. A rational part of you told you that it would take thousands of hours of work, a dozen lifetimes, but reason said all of it was pointless. If a person who had thousands of hours of work and a dozen lifetimes couldn't get to number one again, what chance did everybody else have?
You tried to go to sleep, but you were too excited. You needed to wait so that you could be excited more. You went online and entered a contest to design a web-owned company. You were awarded a complete scholarship to Scholastic Academy of Arts and Design. You loved it there. Everybody in your class seemed to love it there. At night, you would stay up and draw for hours. On the last day, your favorite professor gave you all of the prizes.
You never went to sleep, and in your sleep, you saw the night time. You had not learned anything from your time at the academy. You never drew or painted. And you never went to sleep.
When you reached the one-thousand-hour mark, you felt like nobody needed your work as a veterinary assistant. You wanted to be a great writer, a great painter, or a great actor. You didn't want to be a great woman working in a clinic.
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