He’s asleep. The sun is casting a shadow from the window frame on his salt-and-pepper hair. If I were to write an essay about this minute, I’d say it feels the way coffee tastes, a little bitter in my heart and acidic, but also like honey: sweet, raw, unfiltered.

Dear Universe,

What if one of the most beautiful things we can do isn’t Instagram-worthy? What if it means forgoing adventure and bikinis just to keep someone we love company? What if the places we really need to go don’t have gate numbers or foreign languages or program titles with the word service? This whole year I’ve kept a senior year time capsule under my bed because I want memorable, life-changing, yearbook-quality Stuff. But what if I had it wrong? What if the Real Stuff is just a quiet accumulation of moments like these?

I close the door to my dad’s room with a soft click. I take my phone out and scroll through my contacts until my finger lingers over a certain name. Before I think not to, I hit the call button.

“Hey,” I say when he answers. I know I’m about to talk way too fast. “I don’t know if this is weird, but do you wanna maybe come over? I heard you’re still doing some tutoring for essays and if it’s not too late—”

“Okay, yeah,” he says.

“Okay, cool. Thanks.”

“Sure.”

“So like when?” I ask with all the nonchalance of a mammal giving birth.

He pauses. “How about now?”

In the mirror by the front door I smooth down my hair. The results are impeccable because my hands are sweating. Who knew it was this nerve-racking to write a college essay?

“Hey,” Brendan says when I open the door. He’s wearing a black tutu over his jeans, his hair still a little wet in the bun on his neck.

“Hey,” I say, then suddenly, stupidly, I start smiling.

“What?” he laughs, jamming his hands in his pockets.

“Nothing!” I hover in the doorway. It feels like spring outside, like cool, new things. “Just like thanks for your help and coming over and stuff. I’m pretty screwed with this essay.”

“It’s all good. Ready to Susan Sontag this shit?” I squint at him. “She was an essayist,” he explains.

I sigh. “Poor Susan.” I pull the door open and step aside for him to enter. “You can leave your shoes on, my mom’s at work,” I call behind me.

He takes them off anyway. “So how’s your dad?”

I pause in the kitchen making sure I closed the sliding door. “Good? Sick? A little of both?”

“And how are you?”

“Mentally, spiritually, and emotionally curb-stomped,” I say cheerfully, leading him up the stairs to my room. Pushing the door open reveals how unprepared I am for company.

“What’s that?” Brendan asks, pointing to the upside-down cardboard box on my bed. One of the glow-in-the-dark stars has fallen onto my comforter.