He makes casual conversation for a few minutes, talking smoothly about nothing, like the terrible playlist the barista has on, or the fact that our current healthcare system is a capitalistic sham. Finally, you can’t take it anymore. You shove the letter into his palm, interrupting him mid-sentence. Slowly, he opens it and reads every line of your confession in the middle of this mediocre café while an awful remix of Lua Dipa plays in the background. When he’s done, he looks away and scratches his head. Oh God, you think, preparing for the worst.

He tells you this is awkward, because he’s never seen you as more than a friend. It’s not that you aren’t cute or anything, it’s just that you aren’t his type, which essentially means that you’re just not cute. He goes on to say that he really enjoys hanging out with you and wants to maintain his friendship with you, but wonders if it’s best to create some distance between each other for now. A steamroller of curses barrels through your head. You weren’t expecting that last part at all, especially since the only reason he’s passing Humanities 101 is because you’re sprucing up all his essays. What about our study session, you ask, but he only shrugs and says he’ll join a different study group.

Gingerly, he gives you back the letter and heads to his next class with a short apology that’s barely audible, yet it’s the only thing you hear for what feels like hours. You stay in the café a little longer, waiting for tears to come, but they never do. Instead, you are left to wallow in this dry, empty void that consumes your thoughts. Eventually, you return to your senses as the alarm on your phone rings and tells you to get to class. Go to (D) to go to class or go to (E) to skip class and head to a friend’s apartment instead.