I have leaned forward as subtly as I can to try to see the title of her book, but I can’t. It’s slim, with a minimalist cover. It looks European. Maybe something obscure translated from German. Or maybe she’s reading it in German. She seems like someone who can read fluently in German. Or, oh god, Russian. Latin? I’m too scared to take my book out of my bag, in case she judges me for reading a bestseller written in English, even though I’m at a really good part and dying to finish the chapter.

I have a latte on my desk, and I sip it very slowly, playing with my phone, trying to pretend I am possibly taking notes for a novel I am going to write, instead of looking through my photo reel and wondering if it’s true that your nose keeps growing for your entire life and if I can see that growth in photos of me over the last five years. (I think I can.)

I’ve been living in Melbourne for almost a month now. It’s going well, really well. Sort of. On the good side of things, I have successfully managed to avoid Jesse most days (I have memorised his schedule to make sure mine is slightly different and we’re never in the kitchen together, or on the same tram in the mornings), I enjoy most of my uni classes, and I have forged the tentative beginnings of a friendship with Harper and her girlfriend, Penny. I think. It’s hard to tell. Harper was very enthusiastic about the chocolate-chip cookies I made yesterday, but she might just love chocolate-chip cookies.

On the negative side, I can only relax enough to poop when I think the others are asleep so I’ve had to adjust my entire digestive schedule. I wake up every night, heart pounding, convinced the mouse is back. I had a trial at a local cafe for a casual waitress position and they never called back despite the fact I smiled the whole time, even when a man made me repeat his order back to him twice because he didn’t believe I could remember that he wanted his latte very hot. I bought two tickets to the movies last weekend because I was going to see if Harper wanted to come with me, but then I chickened out of asking her. It felt too presumptuous and cringeworthy, to have already bought the tickets, and the opportunity to just casually ask her never naturally arose, so I ended up going on my own, and I sat in a near-empty cinema and felt like the depressed but beautiful main character of an indie film, which made me feel very adult and mysterious (maybe a cute quirky guy was watching me from nearby, appreciating my haunting allure), but also a little sad.