“God, Noah, that’s so corny.”

I roll my eyes but otherwise try to keep my face still so my face mask won’t crack. “Yes, that’s the point of the Meet Cute Diary.”

Becca laughs, but I can tell she’s already going over the story with her editor eyes, even through my phone screen.

Becca and I have been best friends since middle school, but I only let her in on the big bad Diary secret recently. She was the first person I ever came out to back in freshman year, but I still couldn’t bring myself to tell her about the Diary. It’s not as terrifying now that I’m actually out and I don’t live around those Florida bigots anymore, but opening up to her was a huge first step in accepting that I’m really, truly trans. In a way, the Diary’s the most intimate exploration of myself, the kind that’s only meant to be shared with ten thousand strangers who will never know me in real life.

But I had no choice but to tell her a few months ago after the thing blew up. It was impossible for me to answer all the messages I got, respond to comments, and churn out worthwhile blog posts. Now Becca’s my official meet cute location scout and editor, finding the perfect places for me to stage my potential meet cutes and combing over all the crap I cough up and working her magic, which has the Diary’s readership rising month to month. It isn’t even considered a disruption to our monthly spa date, a new tradition we made up to keep our lives connected while we’re miles apart.

And so far, it’s working, I think. She’s in her bathroom, feet soaking in her tub, and I’ve got this lavender mud face mask I picked up at Target. It’s not the same as seeing each other for eight hours a day at school or her digging through my lunch box every day because my parents make killer Puerto Rican pastries and her parents microwave their tea water, but it’s a start.

“He was really cute,” I say, checking the time on my phone to make sure I haven’t left the mask on too long. Almost as cute as the guy from the ice cream shop with his curly dark hair and the sound of his voice as he passed me my wallet. Actually, I barely remember what his voice sounded like since I never actually made it to the door, and it was pretty loud in there, but I can dream.

“Well, I think you said more actual words to this guy than you did at the ice cream shop, so it’s already a step up.”