My first thought is: That poor guy.

My second thought is: Hold on . . . This sounds a little familiar.

Joseph Preston wanted to woo LJC with a grand gesture, but he took too long and she ran off with someone else. My mouth goes dry at the parallels. I always thought that I had tomorrow or next week or next month to ask Milo to spring fling. I thought I had so much time to ask him to be my boyfriend or even to challenge Asma for first chair but I’ve put it all off because I was afraid, and now look where it has gotten me.

Joseph Preston should’ve set aside his paintbrush and told LJC how he felt—flat out, no beating around the bush. Maybe she would’ve turned him down, but at least she wouldn’t have been the one that got away.

And if I don’t say something now to Milo, I don’t know if I ever will.

Seize the day, Thea would tell me.

The exhibit is empty save for Milo and me and the security guard checking his phone in the next room. Milo is standing in front of a bronze sculpture, and I’m terrified but I walk right next to him.

My voice trembles. “Hey.”

“Hmm?”

“Can I talk to you about something?”

He pries his eyes away from the sculpture, and I’m so anxious that I feel dizzy.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, alarmed.

“Nothing! I just—” Actually, I’m not sure anymore if I want to seize the day right now. “Seize the tomorrow” has a nicer ring to it, doesn’t it? But then I notice Joseph Preston’s paintings in the corner of my eye and I know that I can’t end up like him, growing old with only my cat portraits to keep me company until my bones turn brittle from a lack of calcium and romantic love.

With that horrifying future in mind, I say, “I like you.”

Milo blinks really fast. He looks confused.

“I like like you,” I force out. “I have for a while.”

His eyes fly wide. “Wow,” he says after a couple seconds, as if it has taken that long for my words to travel through his ear canal and into his brain. He says softly, “You like me?”

I nod because I don’t know what else to say. I chew my bottom lip, waiting for him to smile at me or kiss me or tell me he likes me, too, but he keeps standing there, looking like a statue himself. His eyes won’t meet mine either.

“Aw, Jules,” he says.

In those two short words, I hear everything he wants to convey. The nerves. The discomfort. The undertone of how-am-I-supposed-to-tell-her-that-I-don’t-feel-the-same-way. My hopes promptly drive off a cliff.

“Stop,” I say quickly, because I don’t want to hear what he’ll say next. “Can we forget what I just said?”