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When I reach my bus stop, I sit down on the empty bench, perching on the edge so I don’t have to remove my backpack.

“I will try my best. But I can’t make any—”

“Hey! Annalise!”

I stop my thought and look up toward the voice calling my name.

On the opposite side of the street is a little green painted pub with a small patio of picnic tables. A few of my peers are sitting at one, holding big pints of beer. One of the guys, Simon, is waving at me.

“Who’s that?” Koko asks through the phone, reminding me she is still on the line.

“Just some of my classmates. They’re having drinks across the street.”

“So go over there! Sit down with them, order some hot wings. Talk. Laugh. Maybe even put your brilliant heads together and cure something.”

“I don’t know.” I shake my head.

“Just go say hi,” she urges. “Come on. We were just talking about this, and then you get an opportunity. It’s a sign from the universe.”

I don’t believe in signs.

But as that thought leaves my brain, I don’t like the ache it leaves in its wake.

I know there is no scientific evidence to support that signs from the universe exist—it’s just pattern recognition and confirmation bias—but I miss the girl who, for a brief moment in time, did believe in them.

That Annalise wished on stars and found small miracles under the Christmas tree. She went to new places and opened up to people, with no guarantees that she wouldn’t get hurt.

That Annalise was happy.

My gaze drops to the sidewalk in front of me. There is a wad of crushed gum, an indiscernible black stain, and something shimmering in the sunlight in between.

I bend down, pick up a bright copper 1p coin, and smile, once again thinking of Larry.

He would want me to go over there, too.

The jacket may not have been magical, but my uncle, in his own way, was. He had a way of connecting with everyone, whether it was his moody teenage niece or a busker in the subway. He had an uncanny ability of knowing exactly what you needed before you needed it—even if it was only a late-night hot chocolate. He brought out the best in people. He brought out the best in me.

When I stopped believing in the jacket, I stopped believing in Larry’s magic, too.

I close my eyes. “Okay, you win,” I say to Larry as I slide the coin into my back pocket.

“I love this for you!” Koko answers. “Go have fun. Stop overthinking everything. You’re cool, you’re funny, and they’re going to be thanking the universe you even bothered to walk over there. Trust me.”

I don’t know if anyone thanks the universe, but I do have a good time. I also score an invitation to their regular weekly meet-up.

That invite turns into one for a lecture series in London and then a spot on the pub quiz team every Tuesday, which inspires me to start volunteering at the local mental health center.

By mid-summer, I have a budding yet still low-key social life, and I can feel that energy translating to my work. My thesis starts to really come together, and I find myself excited about my work in a way that I haven’t felt in a long time.

When Koko finally arrives in August, the entire taxi ride back to my apartment is a scene of laughs and nonstop talking (mostly from her). She declares my flat to be smashing, my tiny bedroom posh, and the space I’ve made for her in my closet to be brilliant as she unpacks her things to change out of her plane clothes.

“That dress is incredible.” I nod at the yellow polka-dot sundress she’s just pulled over her head.

“Estate sale,” she says as she cinches a green crocodile belt around the waist, immediately turning it from shapeless and matronly to edgy and chic.

“The jacket is what makes the outfit, though.” She pulls a cropped leather biker jacket from her bag and throws it over her shoulders. It looks nothing like Mackenzie’s, but the sight still shreds up my insides.

I turn away, hoping Koko will be too preoccupied with her reflection to notice me, but as soon as I do, two arms come around my waist.