I think Ace is trying to kill me. That’s the only explanation for why he keeps saying things like that and expecting me to have an appropriate response aside from slipping and breaking a bone.

I swallow roughly, my heart stuttering in my throat. “Okay. I’ll send them.”

Another clicking sound draws my attention to Daniela, who’s on one knee, my phone tilted up toward us. She smiles when she catches my eye. “Ready for a mini photo shoot?”

Ace looks at me expectantly. I bite the inside of my cheek and nod. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Later, I lie on my couch, staring at my phone with wide eyes. My homework sits in front of me untouched. I’m too busy looking at my last Instagram post, which has nearly two hundred likes. That’s basically all of the people who follow me.

“This is unbelievable,” I say under my breath.

I let only people I know and trust follow my account, and I’ve never been more grateful for that than right now.

If this picture somehow got back to my parents, I would be done for. I don’t even let Samir follow me for that reason alone.

I scroll through my feed, trying to discern why all of these people are suddenly showing an interest in my life and why they’re commenting on my picture saying:

ugh cuties :((( absolutely outsold

#RelationshipGoals

INVENTED LOVE AND PHOTOGRAPHY??? (That one is Mia. Of course it is. She requested to follow me immediately after the ice skating date.)

so happy for you both

WE HAVE TO STAN!!!

#karstair DID invent love, you’re so right. (And that one is Cora. I shouldn’t have expected anything else.)

waiting for my wedding invitation! (Just for that, Nandini isn’t getting an invitation to my actual wedding, whoever it’s with.)

you look beautiful (A comment from @AlistairClyde. The comment itself has thirty likes. I don’t know what to make of it, but it’s causing strange feelings to blossom inside me and flutter in my stomach.)

As I’m liking comments, my phone lights up with a call from my mother. All the butterflies in my stomach plummet as I debate whether to pick up.

Eventually, I give in, sliding my thumb across the screen. My mother looks back at me, her eyes squinted. “Myra!”

“As-salaam alaikum, Ma,” I say, clearing my throat. “How are you?”

“Wa-alaikum salaam. I’d be better if you picked up the phone more often,” she says pointedly and I wince, lowering my gaze. “What has you so busy?”

“Just school,” I say, wondering how to shift the topic when I notice her henna. “Oh, your mehndi looks so good! Who did it?”