I pick up another USC pamphlet and I rip it in halves, in fourths, in eighths. I destroy everything in sight, ripping and tearing and shredding, until my room is covered in scraps of red-and-gold paper.

I stare at the mess, my chest heaving with all my spent effort—but none of it fucking means anything—and I scream, a shriek so loud I can barely hear my own thoughts past it.

“What the hell?” someone calls across the hall, and I don’t have enough time to gather myself before Anam is bursting into my room, her eyes wide in alarm.

When she finally catches sight of me in the middle of the room, kneeling in front of my bed, she sags in relief. Then her eyes take in the mess on the floor and the tears streaming down my cheeks, and an awful expression passes over her face.

“Did you get rejected?” she asks, her voice small.

“No,” I say hoarsely, unable to meet her gaze. “I don’t have my results yet.”

“Then what the fuck is this?” Anam asks, regaining some of her normal attitude. “Why did you just scream?”

I don’t have an answer, my throat aching with everything left unsaid between us. I open my mouth, but all that comes out is another pathetic sob.

Anam doesn’t react for a long time, and I finally chance a look up, wondering if she’s left me to fend for myself. But she’s still there, a torn expression on her face as she watches me.

I look away when we lock eyes, but suddenly she’s shutting the door behind her, walking over to me, and pushing aside the mountain of scraps. “Apu, look at me.”

I shake my head, staring at my hands, both of them shaking.

“Apu, look at me,” Anam says again, more insistent. She grabs my hands, steadying them in hers. I slowly lift my head, staring at her blankly, and she sighs, her shoulders slumping. “Listen, I don’t know what’s wrong, but it’s going to be okay, all right?”

I press my lips together to keep them from quivering. “It’s not. I’ve ruined everything. How can everything be okay when you won’t even talk to me?”

Anam releases a heavy breath, her own eyes bright with unshed tears. “Apu, it’s not—” She cuts herself off. “That’s not what you’re upset about,” she says instead. “Don’t make this about that.”

“But it is,” I say hysterically. “It’s—it’s you, it’s Rosie, it’s Emmitt—I just—I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to leave any of you behind, I don’t—” I shake my head, taking in another ragged breath, letting it rattle around inside my chest. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”