Everyone says eighteen is too young to know what love is, but they haven’t had a Finn in their life. Someone who started off as a crush and then became a friend and then a best friend, and all the while that crush part never went away—it just evolved into something more hopeful.

I’m not saying I’m definitely in love, but I am saying I find it hard to believe feelings could actually get any stronger than this without causing irreparable damage to a vital organ. My stomach is already on the brink of disintegrating, and I’m not even in the same room as him.

I don’t care if it’s cheesy—I can feel in my soul that tonight is going to be the end of my life as I know it. Because Finn likes me the way I like him, and considering we’re both barely out of high school, that’s practically a miracle. Movies make it look easy, but it’s not. The odds of having a crush who is also your best friend and actually likes you back while trying to survive the epic nightmare that is transitioning into adulthood? Microscopic.

So yeah, maybe that makes me sappy or immature or whatever other condescending term people who don’t have a Finn like to say about people like me, but it doesn’t matter. I happen to be a sucker for a good love story, and I am 100 percent not going to feel bad about it, the same way people who don’t like romance shouldn’t feel bad about themselves, either.

It’s like Dad always says: there’s room in the crayon box for all different colors.

“Your playlist is ready,” Ophelia says.

I grab my bag from the hook behind my door and hurry downstairs. “Thanks, Ophelia. Can you send a text message to Lucy and tell her I’m leaving the house now?”

“Message sent,” the obliging voice responds.

I zip past the kitchen toward the front door and slip on a pair of black brogues. They’re easy to walk in, and I need to wear at least something that’s comfortable because this dress is practically a corset.

“Are you leaving already? What about dinner?” Mom asks from the hall, her dark auburn hair curled neatly at the ends. She senses my guilt before I manage to form a single word and twists her bottom lip into a pout like she’s just been given terrible news.

I lift my shoulders like it’s not really my choice, except it is. I have somewhere to be, and even the smell of tofu katsu curry wafting from the kitchen isn’t enough to make me stay, tempting as it may be.