Dear Diary,

Today marks my 27th birthday—also known as the 27th annual celebration of me being single, untouched, and extremely virgin. 

No kisses, no cuddles, no late-night “Netflix and actual chill.” Just me, my pillow husband, and a WiFi connection that knows too much.

When—WHEN—will I finally experience the fabled touch of a man? Not the spiritual kind, not the “he bumped into me at the coffee machine” kind—I mean full-on rated-R touch. I’ve spent years doing, ahem, research on adult sites like a scholarly nun with a naughty dissertation. When do I get to apply what I’ve learned? I have techniques, Diary. Unused. Untested. Like an IKEA manual with no furniture.

Now, speaking of temptation—today, the office AC broke, and the universe delivered a gift. Troy. Shirtless. In all his Calvin Klein ad glory. It’s not even the first time I’ve witnessed his Greek statue body—those six-pack abs, the V-line that points directly to the sins I want to commit—but today was different. Today, I accidentally touched him.

And by “accidentally,” I mean I asked Jasmine to allegedly push me in his direction. And by “push,” I mean she launched me like a virgin missile straight into those washboard abs. Did I get smacked in the head? Yes. Was it worth it? Also yes. I’d do it again. Twice. With feeling.

So now I’m spiraling. What if—WHAT IF—Troy is the chosen one? The destined deflowerer? My handsome deliverer from the land of celibacy? OMG, Diary, what if my purity ends not with shame, but with glorious ab-rubbing bliss?

Stay tuned. Things are heating up—and it’s not just the broken AC.

Still painfully pure,
Me.

Day 535 of asking the universe the same question: Why am I still a virgin at 27? Like seriously—was I cursed at birth? Did a fairy godmother forget to show up and hand me a "get laid" voucher? 


Because me, I, Pussette Sy—Pussy, if you must—am walking through life like the star of a tragic indie film: orphaned, broke, mildly dramatic, and currently being slow-cooked in my own apartment because guess what? The AC died.


Honestly, that antique machine is probably older than civilization. I think it wheezed out its last breath last night, gave me a half-hearted puff of air, and then passed away with dignity. RIP. 


But hey, I'm trying to be grateful. I've got a roof over my head, a questionable fridge full of leftovers, one emotionally unstable best friend, and a job that keeps me alive—and employed under the one and only Troy Maxon Zhang: CEO, heartthrob, professional emotion suppressor, and walking thirst trap in slacks.


Now listen. Earlier today at work, the office AC broke too. For the second time this week. Coincidence? I think not. Divine intervention? Possibly. 


Because there he was—Troy—strutting through the office like a sweaty Greek god with his sleeves rolled up, top two buttons open, and chest glistening like a well-basted roast. My hydration levels? Gone. My focus? Nonexistent. My soul? Left my body.


What's weirder—he sweats everywhere except his armpits. Not a drop. I don't know what kind of sorcery that is, but I respect it. Also, I'd like to see them. Not in a creepy HR-violating way—okay maybe just a little creepy. But come on! Armpit perfection? That's new territory!


Anyway, Diary, if this heat wave keeps up and Troy keeps serving Michelin-star body looks at 9 a.m., I might actually combust before I ever lose my V-card. Not that I'm desperate. (Okay, I am, but don't tell HR.)


Chapter 1 - Day 1