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He looks down and realizes how closely we’re pressed together. My gaze flicks from the wrong-looking stars and the right-looking galaxy to his deep brown eyes, eyes I swear I’ve known forever. He stares back, entranced.

I turn toward him, noting the cut of his jaw and the build of his chest, a little jealous of the way the gold necklace—a winged figure—rests against his skin.

A distant car horn breaks the moment, and we both become flustered. I pull away as he retreats. I keep my head down, afraid to look at him, and when I do, I catch a flash of longing, maybe embarrassment, at what just happened, though I can’t say why.

“Hey, I know it’s short notice, but are you doing anything Saturday?” Each word takes effort as I recover from our near-collision.

He straightens, going to break down his telescope. "No, believe it or not, I have nothing going on."

"Well, my friends are having a Halloween party. Want to be my plus one?"

He stops collapsing the legs of the contraption. "A real NYC party. That sounds wonderful. Will I need a costume?"

"Probably."

"Can you help me find one?"

A myriad of stupid movie dress-up montages play in my head at the thought. "Yes, absolutely."

He finishes packing the telescope as he starts the climb down the fire escape on his side of the building. "Then it's a date."

“Yeah, a date,” I whisper the words to myself, clinging to them as he disappears from view.

A goofy grin spreads across my face as I stare up into the night sky. I ignore the odd stars and focus on Andromeda and its siblings, feeling an unexpected connection. As I imagine countless ways this weekend could go right, I think, just for a moment, I see them flicker.

Chapter five

An Awakening

As I stare up at the patchwork plaster of my bedroom ceiling, I realize I need a new rule: never make date plans with your cute next-door neighbor, especially if you’re not sure it’s even a real date, only to then spend the next three days walking with him to and from work.

I didn’t dislike the experience, or his company. There was something undeniably sweet about sharing the walk home with someone. I just had to endure it with my cheeks perpetually on fire.

Fortunately, now that it’s Saturday, I don’t have to spend any more time fretting over my date or not-date. Today I’m going to hang out with Kevin, and whatever happens, happens.

I roll over and nudge Mittens away so I can check my phone again. We’re not supposed to meet until ten, but it’s barely eight, and I’ve been staring at the ceiling since six. Would it really be so bad to text him and see if he wants to hang out sooner? It’s not like either of us has anything pressing today.

I open my messaging app, barely having time to think of what to say before a chat bubble pops up: three little dots bouncing. He’s awake, already typing. My breath catches as I wait for his reply.

The dots vanish, and my excitement disappears with them. Then they reappear, and my anxiety kicks back in. This cycle repeats three more times until I’m ready to hurl my charging phone across the room, when finally, a message appears: three emojis—a fried egg, bacon, and a question mark.

I stare at the message, marveling at how all those bouncing dots led to this tiny attempt at inviting me to breakfast. Realizing I have the app open and that he knows I’ve read it, I blurt out ‘yes’ on the screen before I can second-guess myself.

He replies, ‘Wonderful, see you in 15,’ and for some reason, I feel like I’m standing in the aftermath of an explosion, though nothing’s actually happened yet.

I get up, wash my face, brush my teeth, and force down a granola bar so I don’t look completely feral at breakfast. Right on the dot, there’s a knock at the door.

I peer through the peephole and spot Kevin waiting, somehow still handsome despite the fisheye distortion. When I open the door, he’s even more striking: jeans, a brown leather jacket, a tucked-in black V-neck, the dark fabrics setting off his trademark gold necklace, which glimmers like the stars he’s always eager to share with me at night.

"Ready?" he asks, flashing his unburdened, puppy-dog smile.

I nod and follow him down into the crisp, late October air. Once we hit the street, I gesture grandly. "As your mentor, it’s time for your test. We’ve talked plenty about bodega culture on our walks; now, find us a spot with a real bagel sandwich."

I catch a flicker of uncertainty that quickly shifts to determination on his face. "Bagel sandwich, got it."

He leads me south toward campus, deliberately steering clear of the preppy spots designed to drain yuppie wallets. We pass a few tempting halal carts, their aromas almost enough to sway us, but we stay focused. At one point, we approach a corner deli where I sometimes grab sandwiches. He glances at me, hesitant, like a kid seeking approval, but then remembers this place only does bagels as an afterthought.

Then he spots it, his gaze narrowing in triumph. Tucked beneath a tall brick apartment building sits the ideal bodega: nothing professional in sight, only signs in faded paint and hurried handwriting. As we get closer, a thick, greasy aroma lures us inside.