Chris: We don’t even go to same school or have same friend group

Chris: Don’t get me wrong it’s fun texting with you. But I don’t want you to think this is something it’s not.

In my dorm more than a year later, I stare at the text that made me cry for twenty minutes while sitting in my driveway.

It wasn’t the first time I’d made up love in my mind. Listening to Taylor Swift as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, imagining dates and cute moments and a life with a person, just because he had a nice smile or said I was pretty one time.

It was a fun sort of bittersweet pain. Easier than the dull ache of loneliness was the drama, the saga of unrequited love for someone who was half real, half your own imagination. But it was kids’ stuff.

I plug in my phone in and set it on my shelf. Framed next to it is the poster I bought on Etsy that says Who Run the World?

I don’t have time for distractions anyway.

Chapter Six

Braden

My phone buzzes against the table, again. Sara looks up, sending daggers my way.

I shrug and read my message. It’s not my fault; it’s Friday night.

She sighs. “Could you please take this seriously?”

“What?” I don’t look up from my phone. “I didn’t text myself.” I set my phone down and meet her gaze, daring her to say more.

Robbie starts to chuckle but quickly masks it with a cough when she turns her Stare of Disdain in his direction.

“Ugh.” She types something on her computer rapidly, her many bracelets jingling as she researches God knows what dead end or already-done idea. Or maybe she’s just documenting all the ways I annoy her.

I fold my arms over my chest. It’s not like I wasn’t worried about this too. I realize how royally fucked we are. More than halfway to the deadline with zero done. But it’s not like sitting here stressing and running through her weird improv design games—or whatever they’re called—is gonna get us any closer. I might as well be getting drunk somewhere.

Another text lights up my phone, almost on cue.

I lean back on the couch and put my feet on the table. We’re in the lounge of Sara’s and Robbie’s dorm this time, sitting on half-worn-through cloth couches, as people wander around us, playing foosball or discussing some nerd TV show. A group walks by laughing loudly as they drag a keg toward their dorm room.

Sara, in her latest email analysis of our progress, had mused that maybe working in the HP Garage was putting too much pressure on us. So far we aren’t having any better luck here.