She turns my way and swiftly grabs my hand between her own. The jolt after so much time without touching is almost too much. Her hand tightens bizarrely, and I wonder if she feels it too. Except for my parents at the playground when I was a kid, Corinne might be the only person I’ve ever actually held hands with.

There’s a bizarre moment of suspension in the air where we just look at each other, locked in the moment, small as it is. Right now would be a fine time for someone to freeze the entire time-space continuum, I think. But no one does and eventually, words have to get involved. Words always have to get involved.

“I . . . I miss you, okay?” she says. “A truly stupid amount some days. Most days. I miss hanging out with you, and the idea that the end of school—ever—is going to happen without seeing you and talking with you is just nuts, isn’t it?” She takes a deep breath.

“But I’m going to Princeton! And you’re going . . .” She pauses at her own uncertainty there. “Did you ever hear back from McGill? They’ve started to send out their acceptances. I checked. I was . . . curious.”

Her concern is flattering and feels shameful all at once.

“Still pending,” I answer, preferring not to think too much about it. That rejection will sting the hardest when it comes.

“I hope you get in,” she says. “I really do, Halti.”

“Thanks. That, um, that means a lot.”

“But I don’t know how to hope for that as your girlfriend. Or how even to be a girlfriend to someone—Jesus, anyone—from another state! It’s all just question marks right now, y’know?”

I know.

“And, some offense here, but I don’t think you know how to be a boyfriend just yet?”

“Is it the breach of privacy and, er, online impersonation?”

She purses her lips, a tiny contained smile that’s the brightest thing in the world right now. “Yeah, you really got to work on that for your next relationship.”

I would put up an argument if there was one, but there really isn’t, is there? I was the one to mess up this relationship before it could be solid enough to even look ahead to some future.

“But I can hope for you to get into McGill and design amazing sneakers and get all the awesome things in the world . . . as your friend.”

And there it is.

Friend.

The worst word in the world.

Stupid words.

“That part we were pretty good at, no? And it’s what I miss the most. So, for now,” she continues. “Will you please be my friend?”