Promises

“I quit!”

I am in my room, in front of my computer, staring at the blonde freckled woman with a bubblegum pink turtleneck. In the past three years, this is the third time PernillePizza announced the news to us. Her background is messier than usual, she’s sitting on the floor and there are clothes all around her that I recognize from other moments of her broadcasted life: she’s used to changing her level of composure to match the tone of her videos. 

The first time, all her fans, including me, were devastated. Our tween selves recorded ourselves crying, having dripped mascara onto our cheeks before pressing start, sobbing like we were the lead roles of a romcom. Our favorite vlogger was gone, and we’d never see her shopping hauls, drawing tutorials or dessert recipes again. 

“Why would Pernille just stop making videos?” One girl said in the video she uploaded, aggressively twirling her hair. “It’s her passion! She’s letting so many people down. All that because of what, a few hate comments? Everybody gets those!”

Another girl, not crying but staring angrily at the camera, blamed the anti-fans instead. 

“You’re just jealous because she’s doing what she loves! She worked hard and earned everything she’s got, and what are you doing? Probably living in your mom’s basement or something.”

I filmed my own reaction after watching a few of these girls, so much so that my video ended up being a reiteration of everything that’s been said. I rewatched all of PernillePizza’s videos over the course of the next month. And of course, before I was even finished with them, she came back with more snippets of her life. 

The second time she announced her resignation, I was old enough not to make a fool of myself online. I also didn’t have the time, but that’s a different story. 

“Have you heard,” I told my friends back then, Julie and Marco, “PernillePizza’s not gonna make videos anymore.”

“Eh, who cares,” Marco shrugged, “she wasn’t that good anyway.”

“How can you say that?”

“Don’t listen to him,” Julie said, elbowing him, “he’s just mad I didn’t let him copy my assignment.” 

We walked up the street towards our high school. 

“Jordan,” said Marco, “is that what you wanted to tell us? You said it was important.”

I stared at the sidewalk. “Uh… No. Actually, the whole Pernille situation almost made me forget.” I pulled out a notebook from my handbag. “I wanna share the first chapter of my script.”

Julie gasped. “Your script! Finally!”

For a year now I told them I was working on something. And it was never good, and I was always re-writing every page, but at least I wanted some feedback at that point. Marco nearly snatched it. 

“One chapter? That’s it?”

“Hey, it’s hard, you know.”

He scoffed. “Right. No person has ever written a script faster than this, my bad. A year for one chapter is perfectly reasonable.”

Marco was like this with everyone, so I didn’t take it personally. I was busy with school most of the time. And the script just had to be perfect before I showed it to the world. Anything less than that, and what was the point? At least now that Pernille wouldn’t make videos anymore, maybe I’d stop wasting my time on them and get straight to work on it. 

She only left for six months, before–once again– coming back. This time my favorite vlogger had a new house: a big-windowed cube with a clear pool in the Californian valley. Everyone loved the change. It felt like she belonged there, so close to Hollywood and its stars. In those six months while she was absent, I graduated high school and got accepted into law school. Marco and Julie read the first chapter of my script in a week, we talked about it once and then never again. I think they were afraid to bring it up before me–probably expecting that I hadn’t made any progress anyway. They weren’t wrong. There was just no time when I had to focus on getting good grades.

I pause the video and close my laptop. Will she actually leave this time? Will she force herself away from the limelight to live a healthier lifestyle? Is this all just a scam to get attention, or is she actually thinking of leaving vlogging behind every time? I look through my window: dorm building C looks depressing as always, with its burgundy bricks. 

Why would Pernille want to quit, anyway? I get that fame is stressful, but what would she be up to without it? Is there anything she could be just as passionate about? 

I’m the one who should quit. Two years in and I forgot why I signed up for this program at all. I guess law looked more interesting on TV retellings of criminal court cases. Writing my script’s more fun, even if I’ve been on the same sentence for two weeks. Life gets in the way as usual. 

I turn back to the inside of my room, leaning on the pane. Maybe this time, Pernille will leave for real. It’s been ten years after all. Would she actually… I shook my head. I don’t care, I barely watch her nowadays. Still, I want to see what others think. I open the laptop again and scroll through the comments. 

Third time, we know the drill. 

Same story, different year. 

If she really wanted to quit, she would’ve already done it.

Good point, commenters. Still, it’s hard to do the things you want sometimes. Take it from me, I’m a professional procrastinator. 

That gives me an idea.  

PernillePizza, you might be the reason why I finally do it. If you actually leave the internet this time, I’ll write my script. You quit, and I’ll quit making excuses. I promise. 

But how would I know for sure? Maybe I need to wait for one or two years.

We’ll see. I don’t think she’ll even last a week this time.