I was wrong about everything. Wrong about Zoe, wrong about her seeing me and understanding. Wrong to think that she might like me as anything more than a friend, or that the magical world we created might be able to overcome my weirdness or my gender or any of the other mile-high obstacles between us that now are clear as day. But most of all, I was wrong to kiss her. My stomach churns with shame. How could I have been so stupid? Everything could have stayed perfect if I just hadn’t done that.

I pull out of the driveway, racking my brain for some way to fix this. Maybe if I apologize enough, try to explain that I was confused by what was happening, that it was an accident, that none of it meant anything, she’ll understand. Maybe she can forgive me for being stupid and pathetic, and I can disappear quietly, forgetting all of this.

But then I remember.

The glow stars.

The message she won’t yet have seen, the one I wish I could tear from the wall. If it weren’t for the stars, I might be able to preserve at least the tiniest modicum of dignity. I should have remained invisible, kept my distance, stayed somewhere safe. But as soon as she sees that message, it’s over. The final blow is yet to come, and there is nothing I can do to stop it.

By the time I stumble through my front door, sobs are choking me. I go into the first-floor bathroom and rip into the box of Kleenex like a raccoon.

“Samantha?” Mom calls from her office.

I look up in panic. I can’t let her see me like this.

I flee to my room, only to feel like a trapped animal when I get there. The walls can’t contain my feelings, and my floor looks like the recently vacated nest of a pack of sock-shitting lemurs with a frightening appetite for high fantasy books. Even the mess seems to be mocking me, telling me, You did this. You fucked up. The disaster that is your life is your fault, just like the chaos in this room.

But the loss of Zoe is so much bigger than this mess, and it’s not just her — it’s my entire life.

A knock sounds at my door. “Are you all right?” Mom asks.

“No,” I whisper too softly for her to hear.

“What are you doing in there, Samantha?”

“Cleaning,” I say, my voice high and tight.

“Really?” She sounds dubious. “Do you need help?”

“No!” I barely stop the sob that rises to choke me. “I need to turn on some music and focus.”