“So it’s about Giovanni, then,” I said, cutting him off. “The real reason you’re angry is that I broke up Giovanni and Rocco.”

“I’m not happy about that, that’s true.”

I fought down the giant lump in my throat.

“I’m sorry I’ve become such a burden to you and your friends,” I said softly.

“A burden? Jesus! Where is this coming from?” Jahan massaged his forehead with one hand. “I’m just saying you fucked up a bit, that’s all. You hooked up with a guy you would have been wise not to hook up with—and if you’d asked me, I could have told you that. On top of that, you lied to us about what’s going on with your family—which, again, if you had told me—”

“I’m telling you now!”

“Yeah, great timing, Amir,” Jahan said, massaging his forehead with both hands now. “Look, can we talk about this later? My head is pounding, and I need to get back to studying.”

I could feel my lips quivering. I wanted to tell Jahan the whole story—the specifics of Jackson and Jake, the phone calls with my parents that had played out exactly how I’d expected—but then I saw him glance nervously at his algebra textbook on the coffee table. I realized that I didn’t want to do any more damage than I had already done.

So I left.

Four Days Ago

ONE OF MY favorite things about Jackson was that he made amazing playlists. He had one called “sad bops” that I especially loved. He called them sad bops because they were moody, but not necessarily depressing.

“That’s the difference between sad songs and sad bops,” Jackson had told me once, while we were listening to the playlist in his car. His seat was leaned back, and I was resting my head in the dimple of his chest. “Sad songs are for when your heart is broken.”

“So when do you listen to sad bops?” I asked.

He shrugged. “When your heart is confused, I guess.”

Now, several months later, when my own heart didn’t know how it should feel, I must have looped through that playlist about eight hundred times since my fight with Jahan. I could tell you exactly which song came next. After “Dancing On My Own” by Robyn, it was “Supercut” by Lorde. “Wrecking Ball” by Miley Cyrus. “Light On” by Maggie Rogers.

I spent all that time holed up in my apartment, eating fried risotto balls from the pizza shop downstairs for every meal. The greasy paper bags were starting to pile up on my kitchen counter.

My brain was looping through its own confused playlist: Was Jahan mad at me? Why hadn’t Giovanni responded to my text asking if he was okay? And what about Rocco? He had made it very clear that he hated me now. Would he hurt me? Should I call my family? And then back to Jahan—should I call him?

It felt like the ground beneath my feet was crumbling away and there was nothing I could do about it.