My Roommate Copied My Food Channel So I Let Her Eat For Two

The fork was halfway to my mouth when my phone buzzed against the laminate table. I ignored it. The dining hall at Bellhaven University was loud enough to drown out my own thoughts, and the honey-glazed salmon on my tray deserved my full attention. I had a system. Eat clean Sunday through Thursday, film two videos on Friday, post one on Saturday, and let the numbers climb while I slept. The phone buzzed again. "June, you're doing that thing," Marisol said across the table. She was a theater major who treated every meal like a performance, gesturing with her fork. "The thing where your face goes all tight because someone dared to interrupt your meal." She paused. "It's a chicken?" "Salmon." I picked up my phone. "And I'm not tight." June Calloway: your roommate just ordered the same thing you're eating. same tray. same sides. same drink. I looked up. Nora sat two tables over with her back to me. But I recognized the tray immediately. Salmon, wild rice, the roasted Brussels sprouts that most people at Bellhaven avoided, and a glass of sparkling water with lime. Exactly what I was eating. Exactly how I was eating it. She had even arranged the napkin the same way. "I'm going to be sick," I said. "You're going to be fine," Marisol said. "She's been copying you for eight months. You've got the hair, the club, the channel. Why is the tray the thing that breaks you?" Because the tray was mine. The hair I could wear under a beanie. The club I could skip. But the channel was where I actually lived, and Nora was circling it like a shark that had learned to use a phone. I pushed the last bite of salmon around my plate. "Look at her." She did. "Okay. That's uncanny." "Uncanny" was the polite word. Nora had transferred in last spring, and we'd been assigned the same suite. She changed majors when I changed majors. She bought the same noise-canceling headphones. When I cut my hair, she had it two inches shorter by Thursday. When I started eating lunch alone in the studio lounge, she started eating lunch alone in the studio lounge, sitting three feet away with a book she never turned a page in. But the channel was new. I'd started it eighteen months ago, and it had grown from me filming bad reviews of Bellhaven's dining hall to a real audience of people who cared what a college junior ate on a Tuesday. My handle was JuniperEats. I had sponsors. I had a video that had hit two million views because I managed to eat a four-pound breakfast burrito without blinking, and the comments called me "the girl with the bottomless stomach." That was the joke, mostly. The truth was simpler. I could eat anything and never feel full. Doctors had shrugged. Specialists had run tests. My mother had eventually stopped asking. I didn't gain weight, I didn't get sick, and I didn't slow down. At some point, I'd decided it was a talent instead of a problem. I was starting to think Nora had decided the same thing. "Hey." I turned. Nora stood at the end of our table, holding her tray with both hands, smiling with the exact practiced warmth I used on camera. She tucked her hair behind her ear, and I noticed she'd styled it the way I'd styled mine in my last thumbnail, loose on one side. "June, right? Sorry, silly question." She laughed, and it was a good laugh. Natural. I'd heard my own laugh sound like that when I wasn't trying. "I think we're neighbors. 412 and 414?" "We're roommates," I said. "We share a bathroom." Her smile flickered, just for a second. Then it came back, wider. "Right. I'm so bad with faces." She set her tray down across from me and sat, straightening the napkin before she touched her fork. "You have that food channel, don't you? JuniperEats?" Marisol made a choking sound. "I've seen a couple of your videos," Nora went on. "You're really good. Very authentic." She speared a piece of salmon. "I've been thinking about starting my own channel. There's a real audience for people who actually enjoy food." I set my fork down. "I know." "Oh, I know you know. I just mean..." She chewed carefully, swallowed, and smiled again. "It would be fun to have a little friendly competition. Something for people to watch." "A competition." "Everything's a competition in college, isn't it?" She gestured around the dining hall. "GPA. Internships. Who gets the good table by the window." She took another bite. "And who gets the sponsors." There it was. The thing I'd been feeling for weeks without being able to name it. "Sponsors," I repeated. She was already standing, tray in hand. "Anyway. I'll see you at home." She walked away without finishing her food. I watched her dump the rest in the trash and head for the exit, and I felt something cold slide down my spine. "Okay," Marisol said. "She's terrifying." "Tell me something I don't know." "Her hair's a different shade than yours." I looked down at my plate. The salmon was gone. I wasn't satisfied. I was never satisfied, but usually I could ignore it. Right now the hunger felt sharp and new, like Nora had found a part of me I hadn't known was edible.