I was always sort of dragging both of us along, trying to turn a boy who just wanted to hook up into a boyfriend, or one who was unavailable into a future possibility. Convincing myself I was somehow building it into something swoonworthy, something I didn’t have to try so hard to keep together.

But to have someone texting me back before I even have time to stress about whether they’ve read the message? To have someone who shows me off in pictures rather than telling everyone we’re just good friends? To have someone planning dates instead of texting me at 2:00 a.m.?

To have the stars align and luck fall on my side and the universe smile and somehow the guy I like like is actually the same one who like likes me—it’s remarkable.

It makes me wonder how I was so confused about situations in the past. Of course those “relationships” weren’t going anywhere. Those guys clearly were not into me. When someone is into you, you can tell. It’s not like that. It’s like this.

A few days ago, Braden announced that he wanted to have me meet his friends. I kind of thought it was one of those vague, nice things you say in a relationship that never really happens, but sure enough, this morning he texted me about dinner tonight with a group.

He picks me up at my dorm in an Uber Black. I’m wearing dark jeans, a black blouse and the short, fat kind of heels that dress up an outfit while remaining wearable.

“Do you like sushi?” he asks as we speed off campus toward town.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve missed it a ton since I came to school.” Raw fish isn’t usually served in a dining hall, and I’ve been daydreaming about the California rolls at my family’s favorite takeout place.

The driver pulls to the curb in front of a low-slung building made of light wood and sleek black marble.

“This is some of the best stuff I’ve had on this side of the Pacific,” Braden says as he opens the door of the restaurant for me.

A hostess in a black cocktail dress greets us and asks for the name on our reservation. The wall behind her is a waterfall, cascading over marble.

“Hart,” Braden answers and she smiles as she types with red lacquered fingernails.

I peek around the waterfall at the interior of the restaurant. The dining room is dimly lit by fixtures made of tiny lanterns that look like they’re floating above each table.

Men in hoodies and women in bodycon dresses sit in black leather chairs, drinking from tiny ceramic glasses and picking up food so tiny that I can barely see it across the room. Robbie would think it was hilarious. We always joke about how strange the dress code is in Silicon Valley.