It was basically middle school, just with more math, fewer places to hide, and an overwhelming sense that everyone was suddenly in a rush to grow up overnight. Sure, I had different teachers, different hallways to navigate, and different people shoving past me while gossiping about who wore what at the last party, but mostly, life was the same. Same town, same people I’d known forever, and the same nagging feeling that something was missing.

I kept waiting for something significant to happen, though I had no idea what that was.

Everyone else seemed to be in on some unspoken rule that I hadn’t figured out yet. People were suddenly obsessed with reinventing themselves, like it was some kind of requirement. Some picked up smoking. Others got their noses pierced.

The girls who used to wear bright colors and bubblegum lip gloss now only wore black and rolled their eyes at everything.

The guys who used to play video games were suddenly at the gym, talking about protein shakes and bench presses.

Me? Well, I bought a choker necklace and cut my own bangs with safety scissors in the bathroom at two in the morning.

Deep down, I couldn’t tell if I’d changed at all.

I hadn’t dyed my hair again—even though I’d thought about it—and I still didn’t eat meat, though I had no real explanation as to why, other than that it didn’t sit right with me that animals had to die when there was plenty of other food to eat.

I still spent time with Blake, though something between us felt different now. Not bad, just different. Maybe it was because we were older. Maybe it was because I was pretending I didn’t notice the way girls looked at him these days or how he carried himself differently—more confident, more intense.

Or maybe it was just that I didn’t know how to exist without him being the one person who always made sense to me.

But none of that mattered the day Tiffany showed up at my house with red-rimmed eyes, a hoodie three sizes too big, and a plastic bag stuffed inside her backpack like she was smuggling something illegal. “Cameron broke up with me,” she announced, dropping her bag onto my bed and flopping face-first onto the mattress with a dramatic thud.

“Oh.” My mind scrambled for an appropriate response. Was I supposed to comfort her? Crack a joke? Pretend I hadn’t been waiting for this moment? Because, honestly, I never liked Cameron and figured he was bound to pull something stupid eventually. I went with the safest option: “I’m sorry, Tiff.”

She groaned into my pillow. “Don’t be. He was an idiot.”

“Obviously.”

“I hate men.”

“Uh-huh. You’ve been saying that since we were ten.”