I go back to their blog to torture myself a little more. It really is convincing, using the smallest details I wrote into the stories to pinpoint exactly where they were supposed to take place and adding details about each location that seemingly refute the stories. Plus they’ve got sources and statistics about how many trans people even live in Miami—where they traced every early story to—and about how next to impossible it is for there to be that many meet cute stories.

And honestly, it pisses me off. I’m not the first blogger to get targeted by some rando with too much time on their hands and a working Google search bar, and they’re right that the meet cutes aren’t real, but they’re stories. What kind of loser do you have to be to spend your time debunking every cute story you come across on social media? And even if they aren’t real, they give people hope. Isn’t that what matters?

As my anger starts to burn hotter than my coffee, I give up on saving my day and text Brian to pick me up, saying, Mom stalled my credit card. Come get me.

I’m at orientation. Text me the address, and I’ll get you when I’m done.

So I do, and I find myself sitting out on the curb hating my life for the next three hours.

DebunkingMCD posted:

Since you guys still don’t believe me, here are some more links for you. Only 0.6% of the population is trans, the city of Miami has less than five hundred thousand people, and only 6% of that population is between the ages of fifteen and nineteen. That leaves a hundred and eighty people to potentially be featured in over a hundred stories posted on this blog. Are we really supposed to believe one in two trans people in Miami is having the ultimate love story?

Byawndone replied: Wow, I never thought of it that way. I guess that doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it?

Bdpwsqr replied: These are just numbers! Maybe some people had multiple meet cutes? And some people are closeted!

Ilybromine replied: Ugh, I knew this blog was too good to be true.

Load more comments . . .

I can’t bring myself to write in the Diary. It’s probably just shooting myself in the foot since really, I should be online proving to people that love is real, but I can’t work past the churning in my stomach. I just want to go to sleep forever, or at least until my mom restores my credit card.

I completely forget about agreeing to trivia until Brian’s knocking on the closet door like, “Noah, we’re supposed to leave in like five minutes, and I need my shoes.”