I care about this competition more than anything, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about her and our friendship, too.

My arms fall limply to my sides. Okay. Fine. If it’s going be like this, then fine.

I start walking, heading for the stairs. Within a minute, I return to our film club classroom, my fists clenched at my side.

Everyone looks at me in anticipation, and I ignore the anguish threatening to choke me by pasting on a fake smile. “Sorry, guys. It looks like we’re going to have to cancel the club meeting today. We’ll refilm today’s scenes tomorrow. I apologize for wasting your time. If I’d known in advance, I would’ve warned you.”

The entire room seems shocked into silence. We’ve never canceled a film club meeting before, not unless academic circumstances forced us to. This is unprecedented territory.

“What happened, Mina?” Andie asks uncertainly.

I shake my head. “Don’t worry about it, guys. We’ll meet again tomorrow, okay?”

Emmitt is frowning at me, but I can’t deal with that right now. I can’t deal with any of this.

“You can all pack up,” I say, nodding at them, before I move to gather my own things, letting it serve as a call to action.

Slowly, the other club members begin packing up their things, but not without casting me surreptitious looks when they think I can’t see.

Emmitt comes up beside me. “What happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say and rub my eyes when I feel stray moisture threaten to leak out. “Can we—Can we postpone our photography outing until Thursday? We’re going to have to go overtime during film club tomorrow to make up for today.”

He nods, and then his thumb comes up to brush my cheek, where a stray tear has slipped free. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

I nod, wiping at my own face hastily. He stops my hands, his touch gentle, and carefully brushes away all my tears. “Okay. Take care of yourself, love.”

I don’t respond. Taking care of myself is a lot easier said than done.

And clearly, I can’t do anything right.

37

When I get home, I head to my room, ready to crash on my bed and yell into the void aka scream into a pillow. Except, when I open my door, Anam is sitting there, her shoulders shaking. Even her hair is in disarray, as if she’s run her fingers through it one too many times. When she looks up at me, her expression is tear streaked.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Regret rushes through me like a waterfall. I shouldn’t have brushed off Anam earlier.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, setting my book bag down on my chair.