The visits with Wes are the highlight of my day. I find myself staring at the time on the top right corner of my computer screen, willing the minutes to go by faster, till he shows up at my apartment. And then, when he’s here, I want time to slow down. I am so tired of interacting with people virtually. Sometimes I wonder if this pandemic was just a way to get my generation to reject screens and text messages and social-media likes. Maybe they put us in forced isolation in a desperate attempt to get us to yearn for person-to-person contact. To get us to understand the power of connections that happen when you’re in the same room with a person. Right now, I feel very connected to Wes’s thick eyebrows and overgrown curly hair. And his kind eyes. His kind eyes are the best. How have I never noticed them before?

“Can I ask you something?” Wes asks me. I sense anxiety in his tone.

“You just did,” I reply, trying to lighten the mood.

“Why have you never considered me as an option?”

“What do you mean?” I reply.

“Why has it always felt like I’d never have a shot with you?”

This feels like a trap. How am I supposed to answer honestly without throwing my best friend under the bus at the same time? I can’t exactly tell him that part of the reason I’ve never considered him an option is because I’m not sure Parisa could handle it if we started dating. And that I didn’t trust myself not to break his heart eventually.

“I guess it just never crossed my mind,” I lie. “And my life isn’t really made for a relationship. I have a lot going on.”

I don’t like the way he’s suddenly looking at me—like maybe he thought there was more to me than meets the eye and now he’s not so sure.

“You can tell me the truth, Gabs. I think I can handle it. I’m not a kid.” His tone is uncharacteristically abrupt.

“Why are you getting mad at me?” I finally ask.

“Because I feel like you’re not telling me something to spare my feelings,” he says. “Please stop acting like it’s some sort of revelation and not something you’ve known since freshman year. If it’s never going to happen, if you think I’m, like, ugly and gross or something, then I need to know so I can move on.”

But I think none of those things. I picture Raj, head against his front door, whispering: Don’t screw this up, Gabriela. Guys like this don’t come around often. And I know they don’t. We’ve had such a nice time together this week. I’m not ready for anything to ruin it.