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Hakeem spent twenty minutes pacing his room before he texted Layla.

It was not productive. It wasn't the kind of pacing he did before a performance to warm up his body, find his breath, and locate his character in the muscles of the feet. This was the pacing of a man rehearsing a confrontation he knew would go badly, trying different opening lines and hating all of them.

HAKEEM:

hey so I have something I need to tell my roommate, and it's going to sound insane.

He stared at the text. Deleted it. Tried again.

HAKEEM:

I'm about to do something very stupid.

That was true, but less useful. He deleted that too.

Finally, he typed:

HAKEEM:

layla i need you to not freak out

Three dots appeared immediately, which meant Layla was already on her phone, which meant the universe was at least cooperating on timing.

LAYLA:

that is literally the most freak-out-inducing sentence in the english language

what's happening

HAKEEM:

i'm going to talk to antonio tonight. about everything.

LAYLA:

everything everything?

HAKEEM:

the notebook. the cryptic birthday shit. all of it

A pause, longer than usual. Hakeem could picture her sitting wherever she was—her apartment, a coffee shop, the back seat of someone's car—reading his texts with the subtle narrowing of her eyes that signaled she was deciding whether to be supportive or interventionist.

LAYLA:

okay

okay okay okayyy

are you sure this is a good idea ??

HAKEEM:

no

LAYLA:

are you going to do it anyway