are you still watching?

by Shahrzad Warkentin

If I stream for more than 90 uninterrupted minutes my TV performs a wellness check. From where I sit on the sofa, bathed in the electric light of the flatscreen affixed to the wall, I face the innocuous question, “Are you still watching?”

This is the position I find myself in every night since Charlie has been gone. Usually I answer in the affirmative, but tonight I can’t bring myself to press the button. Instead, I stare at the words until they tattoo my retinas. Even as my eyelids descend, the words remain, like a screen burn-in against the darkness.

An egret croaks in the distance. My eyes open on the ceiling fan in a colonial-style room. Five light-brown, rattan paddles circle lazily like a rider-less carousel. The only sign betraying the aesthetic is the slowly blinking red light in the corner. The smoke detector. A monotonously bleating signal, like a muted heart monitor on the brink of a flatline. Of course, that would never make it into the camera frame. The illusion remains intact.

It’s been three days now that I’ve been waking in this place instead of my own bed. I knew immediately this was not my room, and yet there was such a familiarity to it. I recognized these walls with their honey-brown wood panels. It wasn’t home, but I wasn’t scared because it felt like someplace I’d been many times. The last thing I remember before waking up in this California king, with its immaculate 1,000-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, is spending an entire weekend binging Seasons 1 - 23 of Mike White’s hit HBO series, The White Lotus. The show I was watching when the TV questioned my sanity. Now, apparently, I’m stuck in a twisted cinematic purgatory, like Pleasantville or Groundhog Day, that has me trapped inside of this sardonic TV show. Except, instead of waiting to see if an over-sized rodent will notice his shadow, I’m waiting to find out who gets murdered at the White Lotus. I know it won’t be me. I’m just a background character. Relegated to lounge two chairs down from the main characters by the pool or stroll past them as they select muffins at the breakfast buffet. Close enough to be seen, but just far enough not to be noticed.

And before you ask, no, I have no desire to go home, to escape this strange limbo. I’ve actually been enjoying my stay immensely. I can’t imagine how anyone would have anything bad to say in a Yelp review. Other than the body count. But death is a given. It might sound boring, being in the background, just a step up from the furniture, but really, it’s a lot like watching a play, only the actors are all around me instead of on a stage under a spotlight.

I roll over and find the other half of the sprawling mattress empty and unrumpled. The mosquito nets hanging from the mahogany, four-poster bed sway in the gentle wake the fan creates. The nets are just for show. There are no bugs in a luxury resort like this one. No long-legged crane flies or Asian tiger mosquitoes. They have all been eradicated by the man in the bee-keeper suit who makes his rounds with the fogger in the early hours between twilight and dawn. Guests paying a McDonald’s employee's annual salary for a five-night stay should not have to worry about things like Dengue fever or Calamine lotion.

No detail left undone at a place like this, even if it is technically a third-world country. It’s like Disneyland for the one-percenters. A façade of brocade upholstery and priceless tapestries designed to make you forget that just outside the resort is an island full of impoverished people living in shacks made of sheet metal and mud, cobbled together with nothing but duct tape and a prayer against the inevitable onslaught of hurricane season.

Everything here is immaculate and clean, including the deaths. Even when blood is spilled, it’s neat. A stray bullet. A poisoned Mai Tai. Falling over the railing of a super yacht. Not something ordinary, like cancer that rages through your body and leaves you so emaciated that you are unrecognizable, even to your wife. No ma’am. That kind of death does not occur at the White Lotus.

Gunfire rang out on my first night here. That’s how I surmised where I was in the season timeline. The first episode always formulaically flashes forward to the death(s). I thought it was fireworks being lit on the water. The bellhop, Ajani, a twenty-year-old supporting his entire family with a strong work ethic and dashing good looks, informed me there was nightly entertainment when he turned down the bed and requested my devices to be locked away. This White Lotus location is a wellness retreat, much like Thailand in Season 3. Guests are meant to unplug and digitally detox. Normally I would never agree to such a thing, but something about the way Ajani smiled when he asked made me think it was a good idea.

What better way to unwind and relax than by going off-grid, but with the benefit of electricity and running water? Speaking of plumbing, did you know Mike White was a contestant on Survivor? I’m pretty sure that’s where he got the idea for this globe-trotting, hotel series. Instead of a million-dollar prize, the lucky survivor wins by avoiding the body bag. Outwit, outplay, outlast outlive. Mike White didn’t win. He was the runner-up. Season 37 David vs. Goliath. He lost in the final tribal council to Nick Wilson, the last remaining David. We used to watch Survivor, me and Charlie, before everything changed and he started falling asleep in front of the TV in a post-chemo, oxycodone stupor.

Anyway, it’s not like I can’t live without my phone. I might miss a call or text, but nothing that can’t wait. The only downside is there are no TVs anywhere. A gold-framed mirror hangs on the wall where the television should be, above a sustainably-harvested teak dresser with inlaid carvings. I notice my reflection in the mirror. I look different, radiant and soft, like a Snapchat filter is overlaid to cover the creases that have taken root at the corners of my dark eyes. My usually limp tresses fall in a cascade of effortless beach waves, and my cheeks are flushed with a sun-kissed glow.

It’s difficult to keep track of the time. There are no clocks here either. It could be brunch or cocktail hour. I make my way to the restaurant, take a seat at the bar and order champagne; regardless, it works. I sip my drink and pretend not to watch the action unfold around me. Daniel Day Lewis approaches with a pained, but brooding expression on his face. Dakota Fanning hangs on his arm, a storm of worry and fear washes over her. “Don’t worry,” I hear him say as they pass, “Good things happen to good people.”

I want to grab him and shake him and say, “No they don’t! This is the White Lotus, not Gilmore Girls!”

But of course, I don’t say anything. I discovered the hard way that I’m not allowed to speak to the main cast, or if I try they just ignore me. The first day, before I got a grip on what was happening, I tried to ask Dakota for directions to the pool, but she looked right through me. So, I stay in my seat and sip my drink like a good Woman at the Bar. And then I keep drinking. I drink enough to forget that good things don’t happen to good people at home either.

The next day it’s time for a spa treatment. I wrap myself in a Sea Island Cotton towel and take a seat in the corner as Girl in the Sauna. I close my eyes and let the booze ooze out from my sweating pores while I eavesdrop on the trio of brunettes from Texas having a girls’ trip. I like to call them the Unreal Housewives. They don’t notice me as they whisper loudly to each other about how difficult it is finding a reliable housekeeper in a red state.

There’s a formula to this show. Every episode has its own arc, this one is clearly focused on the gaggle of gilded gal pals, but then you have the story arc that spans the season. By now we’re somewhere in the middle of Act 2. The premise is set and characters have been established. There’s these three and their fraught frenemy-ship. Then Daniel and Dakota, the couple with the cringey age gap who stare intensely at each other over breakfast burritos. Oh, and I can’t forget about the East Coast family who brought their nanny along because the father is clearly fucking her while his wife zonks out on Ativan. And then there’s me. Single Woman by the Pool. Girl in the Sauna. Lady at the Bar. I don’t have a backstory, not a scripted one anyway, so I’ve come up with one of my own.

I am a wealthy socialite. Widowed. Divorced. Never married. I am on the board of many philanthropic organizations. I mountain bike go hiking do Pilates. My hair color is natural. My boobs aren’t, but only because I had a double mastectomy. I read every issue of People magazine Pulitzer prize winner. I only drink sustainably sourced wine coffee. I do not watch television, reality TV, TikToks.

Later, I sit cross-legged on the bamboo-matted floor in the back corner of the Tranquility Room. Manjari, the Mindfulness Coach who wears a flowing kaftan and delicate stacks of bracelets that jingle when she moves, sits at the front, leading the meditation class. Our group scene consists of the wealthy wife of the man sleeping with the nanny, her teenage daughter, two of the Unreal Housewives, Dakota Fanning, and me.

​​"When the mind is calm, how quickly, how smoothly, how beautifully you will perceive everything," Manjari says after several minutes of uncomfortable silence.

Her head remains bowed in prayer as she speaks. She inhales deeply, her entire body filling with air until it looks like she might float away like a balloon. We all mimic her actions. We do not float. Her eyes open and a warm smile spreads across her face, hugging us all with an unconditional sense of acceptance only a Hollywood actor portraying a Yogi master can impart.

She blesses the room with her gaze, as she recites the wise words of the Dalai Lama Tony Robbins. "It is in your moments of decision that your destiny is shaped."  

She bows deeply and whispers, “Namaste.” The room mirrors her greeting. One by one my classmates rise and file out, but I find I am transfixed, her words repeating in my mind.

I cannot shake them even later that evening at dinner. Maybe I imagined it, but it seemed as if she was talking directly to me. I mull it over sitting alone at the beachside restaurant, backlit by flaming tiki torches. The sun sinks dramatically into the sea. All the White Lotus locations are beachside resorts, with the exception of the ill-conceived Season 8 Swiss Chalet setting. It had its pluses, but let's be real, there’s nothing sexy about snow suits.

The East Coast bluebloods argue at the next table about their son’s decision to take a gap year from Yale to “find himself” in youth hostels across Eastern Europe. I peer down at the menu trying to ignore them. I love how simple the choices are here. All I have to decide on, is if I want the Confited Foie Gras or the Native Lobster drizzled with small-batch Albanian olive oil. Not like at home where dinner is the least of my worries. The hard choices are deciding between paying the mortgage with a single income or investing in a funeral plot.

The father at the next table shoves his chair back and storms off, followed by the hot nanny. The mother laughs, vindictive but sorrowful, and lifts her glass in a toast. She catches me watching her and tips her head so slightly it's almost imperceptible, but then she smiles and I know she sees me. I tear my eyes away. This is the first time anyone in the main cast has acknowledged my existence. Something has shifted. Suddenly I feel scared. I look back and she is gone –but the relief is short-lived. A firm tap knocks on my shoulder and there she is, standing behind me. “What are you doing here?”

I don’t answer. Instead, I get up and rush away, leaving her and the hypnotizing aromas of the restaurant behind.

I find myself on the beach, walking along the sand where the sea is flowing from the pull of the bright, white moon. The foam crests against my feet and legs, and I can feel him here with me. The life that courses through the waves hits me with its full power and it’s like the very first time his lips pressed against mine. It’s all too much and I shout questions with no answers at the impartial moon as the tears stream down, pulled by that same invisible force as the tides. I turn my back on the silvery sentinel and escape to my room.

Charlie and I talked many times about competing on Survivor. About the choices we would make. How we would practice fire-making and always wear outdoorsy clothing, even if the producers told us to show up in business casual. You never wanted to be the poor sap who ended up wearing a ratty blazer and leather loafers for 33 days. We debated the merits of the choice’s players made and the jealous, rage-fueled questions the jury posed. We would do it differently when we competed. Of course, there was never a real when, but it was nice to share a dream.

Those are the moments I miss the most, the little ones. Our nightly retreats to the couch, remote in hand, snacks piled up between us as we escaped the mediocre world of bland dinners and wilting houseplants to watch our dreams unfold on the 42-inch, LED flatscreen mounted on the wall of our tiny living room. There is comfort in ritual. At least there was before Charlie’s rituals became ER visits and hospice nurses. Now my escape brings me no relief, only emptiness. I lay back in the four-poster bed, where I have decided to take refuge for the remainder of my White Lotus stay, and watch the fan spin methodically until it finally lulls me to sleep.

When I open my eyes again it’s pitch black. The only light comes from the moon invading through the oversized windows. It bathes the empty pillow next to me. Then I hear it. That same ratta-tatt-tatt that woke me on the first night. We’ve made it to the Season Finale. For the first time I wonder how this will end. The sound is far away, but as I lay there staring into the darkness, the pattering pops move closer until they become loud booms. And then I hear a woman wail. A heart-wrenching cry of misery that can only come from a deep, soul-crushing pain. I know that sound well. It’s calling me. Pulling me out of bed. It’s my time to compete. The final immunity challenge.

I slowly open the door and peer out into the darkness. A loaded silence greets me. I know this is the end, but for a moment I think maybe I’m mistaken. And then I hear it again, the lamenting wail that sends a tingle through my body and turns my bare skin to gooseflesh. I slip on the Mulberry silk robe, embroidered with lotus blossoms, that hangs conveniently by the door and step out into the long night.

The moon lights the path towards the resort’s central courtyard. The shadowy silhouettes of leaves and palm fronds dance along the ground and I take small, careful steps. The hammering of my heart creates a rush of white noise in my ears, harmonizing with the waves crashing in the distance. I make my way slowly forward, pausing and ducking down each time a branch rustles or a cricket chirps. On the last turn the path opens out to the palatial courtyard. A tranquil reflecting pool sits at the center, surrounded by tall, whispering trees, like a hidden oasis. A mirage. The pathway continues, making a large loop around the impeccably designed pond. Slender, green reeds poke out along the banks and sleek lily pads float lazily. A ripple emanates, disrupting the glassy surface. A body, floating face down in the water, is the cause of the disturbance. Like discarded flotsam, he drifts past me. Daniel Day Lewis.

I want to help, but the stiffness of his body tells me that I am too late. I’ve watched enough CSI to know these things. And yet the swoop of his curling brown hair tugs me closer to the banks. It’s so familiar. The urge hits me to turn him over so I can see his face and know for certain. I inch carefully forward, trying to reach the body that is now entangled in the reeds. My fingertips can just barely reach. They graze his damp shoulder just as the mournful wailing calls out to me once more. Startled, I fall back against the shore. I can’t help him anymore. But maybe I can help her.

I leave Daniel behind and continue along the curve of the path. Two bodies lay at odd angles next to each other. I recognize them as the hotel security guards. Collateral damage. They are too dead to be the source of the wailing. I spot a pair of feet wearing red-soled Louboutins. They are attached to legs dressed in crisp, white slacks. The legs disappear into the dense foliage surrounding the path. Stepping closer, a wide-brimmed hat lays discarded to the side. I recognize the hat. It belongs to the well-dressed woman who emerged from a tinted-out Suburban last night as I made my way past the main entrance. Her face was hidden by the brim of her hat, but I heard the hushed whispers of the bellhops identifying her as the hotel owner.

She moans and writhes as I push the shrubbery aside. A bright red spot blooms on the sleeve of her cream-colored, silk blouse. I kneel down to take a closer look. She turns her head towards me and that’s when I see. She is me. I am looking at myself. She may be an impeccably dressed hotelier who is bleeding to death, but there is no mistaking that this woman lying on the ground is me. Not Girl at the Sauna, or Victim Number 3, but Hotel Owner. A featured cast member. If she recognizes our kinship, she doesn't let on. Perhaps she is blinded by the pain. I take her hand gently and she relaxes, allowing me to tear open the silky fabric of her sleeve to inspect her arm. The bullet has grazed her skin. Nothing but a flesh wound I surmise from my eight seasons of training with Dr. House, MD. She is going to be just fine. Her eyes tell a different story, however. They widen in terror as I hear the unmistakable click of a hammer cocking against a pistol behind me.

I turn slowly to find Mike White, gun in hand, aimed squarely at us.

He shakes his head, exasperated. “You don’t belong here,” he says, a note of annoyance in his voice. And then, more gently he adds, “It’s check-out time.”

His finger squeezes the trigger as he adjusts his aim to the woman behind me. There’s no time to think, but I know I can’t let him kill her/ me. I throw myself back, landing on top of her/ me just as the bullet explodes out of the barrel.

Cut to black.

A blinding light disrupts the dark. At first, I think I am staring into the moonlit sky, but as I sit up my fingers find the worn velour of our familiar couch beneath me. The brightness dulls, taking the shape of a rectangle. The television is still waiting for an answer to its Socratic question. It’s time to decide. I palm the slender white remote in my hand and click ‘Exit.’

Photo of Shahrzad Warkentin

BIO: Shahrzad Warkentin was a 2004 Nickelodeon Diversity Fellow and wrote for several animated series, including My Life As a Teenage Robot. Currently, she is the Managing Editor of Local Anchor, an online magazine based in Los Angeles. She has a short story forthcoming in Perceptions Magazine 2026 and is working on completing her first novel. IG: @writersher