There is a theory of parallel universes—or a multiverse—much like String Theory’s extra dimensions of spacetime. It’s the speculation that there are other parallel universes running alongside ours with different pasts and different futures—where one choice you make splits off into another parallel world. So, perhaps there’s a universe out there where the impossible happens and I’m not Starfield’s princess.

Perhaps there is a universe where a girl with a pink pixie is.

“Princess Amara is brave,” Imogen finally says, and her voice is soft and timid, like she’s telling me a great secret not many people understand. “And resourceful and she’s the kind of princess who rescues herself, you know? She wasn’t made to be someone else’s character arc. When I first saw Starfield, I knew her. She wasn’t perfect—and that’s what I needed. She’s constantly in her father’s shadow, or Carmindor’s—but she tries so hard, constantly, to cast her own. And in the end she does by becoming the best version of herself. That’s why Amara means so much to me. She taught me that I can make mistakes, and own up to them, and be better because of them. So…I want to apologize—I didn’t know what you’d gone through. Or I mean, what you go through.”

I snap my gaze up to her, and she quickly looks away, but it’s too late. I know that tone. “What happened? Did something happen?”

Her mouth thins, and she sits down on the other side of the booth in silence. The waitress refills my glass and, seeing that she’s interrupting something, quickly hurries away. Imogen refuses to meet my gaze.

I don’t know Imogen very well, but I know that when she’s quiet, there’s something incredibly wrong. “Imogen, what happened?”

“It’s stupid. I mean, it’s done now.”

“That doesn’t tell me what happened.” Then I add, “It wasn’t Ethan, was it? I know you two got into a fight last night but…” I reach for my phone in my pocket and pull it out to call him. “I don’t know what’s come over him but—”

“NO!” She almost climbs over the table to stop me from texting him. I stare at her, startled, and she melts back into her seat in embarrassment. “No—it’s not him. It’s really not that big of a deal, okay? During the meet-and-greet today, a guy I knew came in. He just—his hand ‘slipped’ and he—you know—sorta copped a feel,” she says hurriedly, her cheeks burning.

Oh. Oh no.

“It was mortifying,” she adds quickly, “and before you ask, he didn’t recognize me. He thought I was you.”