Now, I’m showering down the hall from my bedroom, wanting to get back to Valentino. The whole time I’m rinsing my hair and body I’m torn between memories of how good everything felt and how bad everything will feel when he’s gone.

Something that’s only just beginning will be ending just as soon as it started.

His death can happen at any moment.

It could be happening right now.

It could have happened already.

The thought of Valentino being dead in my bedroom scares me.

I get out of the shower, barely drying off even with the sudden memory of Valentino busting his ass this morning at his apartment because he was dripping from his own shower, and I remember that I’m not in the clear yet either, that today could be my End Day too, but I can’t stop myself from needing to see him alive, alive, alive, alive, alive. I open my bedroom door, and Valentino is sitting at my desk and talking into the camera.

Or he was talking into the camera until I busted in like the house is on fire.

“What’s going on?” Valentino asks, fear in his blue eyes.

“Nothing, nothing.” I almost drop the towel wrapped around my waist, which wouldn’t be the end of the world now that we’ve seen every inch of each other. “I wanted to make sure you were okay. I had a bad feel— I got nervous.”

Valentino lets out a deep breath and sits. “I’m okay. I’m just recording a message for Scarlett. Something for her to have after I’m . . .” A small, knowing nod. “Do you mind if I finish? I need a minute.”

“Take your time,” I say. Then: “And don’t die.” Then-then: “You know what I mean!”

I leave my bedroom, and I’m half tempted to punch myself in the mouth so I can’t say anything stupid again. Instead, I return to my bathroom, where I towel-dry my curls because a hair-dryer feels too risky now that my own fate is up in the air again; I’m not trying to get electrocuted. I change into fresh jeans, a bit baggier than my last pair so I won’t have to fight my way out of them. And on top of my undershirt I put on Valentino’s gray button-down he’s been wearing, breathing in the collar that smells citrusy, kind of like his hoodie. If Valentino has a problem with me wearing it, then he’s going to have to wrestle it off me, and then maybe he dies or we die together because of a fight over a shirt that I want to keep like a championship belt, like a trophy that will always remind me of the victories on this End Day.

I step on a towel and drag it from the bathroom to my bedroom, drying the puddles.