“You’d think it would be the opposite. Honestly, it’s not them. They’ll be happy no matter what I do, so long as I’m healthy. But you’re probably right. Maybe I’m desperate not to disappoint them because I feel like I already have. No one wants a sick kid.” He stops, letting the thought sink in. “Wow. That’s the first time I’ve ever articulated that.”

“What happened to you…it’s not your fault.” I wonder if Levi would have told me this if we were face to face, or if this is information I’m only learning because the two of us are talking to the sky and not to each other. “You don’t need to make up for it.”

“I know.”

“Isn’t it so weird how we can know things but not know them at the exact same time?”

“You should be a therapist,” he says, and I laugh. “Seriously, you’re really good with people. That’s why I always ask for your advice.”

I smile and soak up Levi’s compliment. For a second I try to picture myself as a therapist. I can see the slick couch (a velvet cobalt) and even the notebook (cloth, hardback, pink Shinola), but the rest—college, graduate school, training—I can’t even fathom. Me capable of setting a goal like that—becoming a therapist—and managing to follow through.

When I think about growing up, I mostly imagine a meandering crawl through my bucket list—kayaking the dunes of Namibia, seeing gorillas in Rwanda, hiking the entire Na Pali Coast, celebrating New Year’s in Times Square, visiting a hedgehog cafe in Tokyo, dancing costumed at Burning Man. Nailing the perfect Coachella look. Taking Cesar to Disneyland and getting him his own Mickey ears cap with his name embroidered on the back.

That last one I’ll check off before I leave for college.

Last year, my mom said, apropos of nothing, “I bet you go into PR,” and when I asked why, she shrugged and said, “I don’t know but it’s full of girls like you.” I didn’t ask what she meant by girls like you.

What kind of girls? Stupid girls? Rich girls? Empty girls? Boring girls? Not-so-pretty girls?

I like to think she meant it as a compliment. If Paloma is anything to go by, you can be a boss in PR. But I’ve noticed she’s never suggested this to Isla.

“So what’s your essay about or”—he gestures to my blank screen—“going to be about?”

“No idea. I have absolutely nothing to say.”

“That’s not true. Tell them about you.”

“Nothing bad has ever happened to me.”

“Getting into college isn’t the pity Olympics.”