His latest update comes in the form of his arm, covered in eyeshadow swatches while three different hands swipe varying shades of purple onto the remaining bits of space on his forearm.
Alex
Help. It’s 3am.
I grin, typing out a reply on my laptop from one of the Nightshade library’s dark, dusty corners, where I study opposite Divya.
Ophelia
Purple might be your color.
He sends back a zoomed in photo, and though it’s blurry, I know it’s a closely cropped photo of my hair.
Alex
This is my color.
Ophelia
Careful, Corbeau. Wouldn’t want to come on too strong.
Alex
This crush I have on you is getting out of control.
Alex
FaceTime me when you shower later.
My bottom lip almost bleeds from the effort of biting down on my smile. Over aman, no less. How far I have fallen.
I close the tab before I addfailing all my examsto the list of things I’m doing over a man. Divya gives me a knowing look, teasing but smiling ear-to-ear as she sits with her headphones on, poring over a cardiology textbook.
I think she’s been sitting here for thirteen hours. Medical degrees aren’t for the weak.
It’s gloomy out, as it always is. The sky has a dark, rumbling underbelly that’s rolling its way over the unkempt pines. A fine mist of rain obscures the spires of the castle, but inside, the fireplacebeside the library bar is kicking out a steady warmth. A cozy glow from the brass wall lamps casts the dusty shelves and creaky desks in a soft light. It’s quiet in here, thanks to some party that went on way too late last night, so the sense of foreboding that looms over my shoulder while I write my notes on grief in childhood makes no sense to me.
I hate the distance. It feels like helplessness a lot of the time. Whenever Alex has a bad day, all I can do is text him.
I just hope it’s enough to get us through the next two years.
DIVYA IS ASLEEPon her laptop keyboard when I get back from swim practice, exactly where I left her.
I drape my jacket over her shoulders and leave her to rest.
I work in the library until the lines of my multimodal perception essay don’t seem to make any sense anymore, until I’ve stared at the wordcognitionfor so long that it looks like a weird assembly of letters with no meaning.
It’s then that I notice the strange looks starting.
Actually, they’ve never really stopped. I can’t walk across this campus and not catch a few death glares, but they definitely seem to intensify.
The two girls on the brown chesterfield by the fireplace, dressed like they’re off horse riding and not sitting in a dusty castle in the Scottish Highlands, swivel where they sit. One of them whispers something to the other, which isn’t uncommon. Something about my outfit, usually, or my slightly wonky teeth, or my freckles. I’d hoped to keep myself out of the spotlight this year, but getting back together with Alex has shattered that plan. Everything I donow seems to be publicly debated, sorted intoworthy of himandnot worthy of him.
But this time, no one seems to be laughing. If anything, they seem … sympathetic? Worried?Angry?I’m not sure; I’m terrible at reading people.
When I glance around the sagging wood shelves and dusty vaulted ceilings of the room, a lot of people are staring at me. I open the camera app on my MacBook to see if I have leftover pasta sauce on my chin, but it’s got some dumb filter on it that makes me eyes bigger than the rest of my head.
In the photo gallery on the bottom left, photos of Alex and me in bed at my parents’ house with giant bug eyes and tears of laughter glistening on our cheeks stare back at me.
