We have arrived at the end of our application review period, and I am sorry to say that we are unable to offer you a space in this year’s incoming class.

And all I feel is relief.

54

As I’m sitting outside the film club classroom, waiting for everyone to arrive so we can submit the short film together, my finger hovers over Emmitt’s contact.

I want to tell him the good news. About NYU and about staying and about—well, everything. But it’s been two whole weeks since our fight, and he still hasn’t come back to school.

Even worse, I still haven’t heard from him.

Underclassmen pass by me, heading into the room, but not without stopping to say hello. Christina even leans down to give me a quick hug before she goes inside. I offer her a small smile and nod at the rest of the club members, but the one person I hope to see never appears.

Rosie shows up, holding hands with Sofia, and ruffles my hair on her way in. I give her a smile, squeezing her ankle as she heads inside.

But it’s still not Emmitt.

With a low groan, I resign myself to the fact that I might not have a chance to apologize in person. Bearing that in mind, I finally click into our text thread and pull up the short film I made for him.

I watch it back first.

It’s every memory I have with Emmitt playing across the screen. Him staring out at the ocean on the Staten Island Ferry, his fingers resting on a table in Rockefeller Center, his coffee-stained shirt as we walk from Green-Wood Cemetery, him leaning down to pet a dog atop High Bridge, him taking a lick of mint chocolate chip in Gantry Plaza State Park.

Him holding out his hand toward me, him offering me an awful wink, him throwing back his head and laughing brightly, him taking photos of me over and over and over again.

All set to the lyrics of a song that capture my feelings more than I could ever hope to.

Dear Emmitt,

I’m really sorry about everything that happened. I hope you can forgive me and I hope you decide to come home someday.

Love,

Mina

I press Send and lean my head against the wall with a sigh of defeat, staring up at the row of lockers ahead of me.

Down the hall, a familiar tune starts playing. “Cornelia Street” by Taylor Swift.

My neck nearly snaps with how fast I turn my head.

Emmitt is standing at the end of the hallway, as beautiful as the first day I met him. His hair is black again, longer than the last time I saw him, a few strands falling onto his forehead. But he’s still the same somehow. And more than that, he’s here.

He’s here.