Harper exhales an aggravated sigh. “You’re right—if you don’t tell me, I’ll never understand. I don’t know what’s come over you these past few days, but you definitely aren’t as happy as you seemed to be, and I know something’s wrong.”

Oh, was Imogen that much of a ray of sunshine?

I shake my head. “Do you know what it’s like to put everything you have into something—like a project, or a character—and it’s just never enough for anyone? Knowing that, no matter what you do, you’ll never live up to the expectations in other people’s heads?”

“That’s a tough spot to be in,” Harper says, cocking her head and taking a moment to consider her response. “I think you should just live up to the expectations in your own head first, because you’re always hardest on yourself. At least that’s how I feel when I’m trying to write my comics.”

I fidget uncomfortably and chew on my bottom lip. “It is?”

“I think it’s bullshit that the only meaningful stories are the ones that are deep and pondering and boring, saying all this nonsense without ever saying anything, and you’re supposed to, like, read meaning into the yellow wallpaper or something.” She rolls her eyes. “You know what I think? I think sometimes the stories we need are the ones about taking the hobbits to Isengard and dog-human dudes with space heelies and trashy King Arthurs and gay ice-skating animes and Zuko redemption arcs and space princesses with found families and galaxies far, far away. We need those stories, too. Stories that tell us that we can be bold and brash and make mistakes and still come out better on the other side. Those are the kinds of stories I want to see, and read, and tell. ‘Look to the stars. Aim. Ignite’—that means something to me, you know?”

No, I don’t. But…I want to.

Harper takes my hand and squeezes it tightly, giving me the courage I need. “Harper, I need to tell you something—”

“Jessica Stone?” a voice interrupts.

I glance up, and on the other side of the booth table is that interviewer from my first day at this con—the woman with the candy-apple-red glasses and the off-script questions. The journalist who made me humiliate myself in front of Natalia Ford. I quickly push my glasses up on my face. “I think you have the wrong—”

“You are! I’d know that face anywhere. What’re you doing here?” Her eyes grow hungry as she drinks me in like her next paycheck. She’s starting to attract the attention of other people in the aisle.

“Dude, I think that’s her,” a Deadpool says to another Deadpool. “Look at the mole on her left cheek!”