You quickly tuck the letter into your back pocket as he chatters away about nothing. You can’t really focus on the conversation, however, as the words of your letter bounce around in your head. Suddenly, he stops talking and looks at you expectantly. Oh no, did he ask you a question? You okay, he asks again. You nod profusely and change the subject to your familiar ramble about the hedonistic tendencies of mallrats. This seems to work, because he laughs softly and says he loves it when you talk like his mother when she’s drunk off eight shots of tequila.

When he disappears off to class, you exhale and feel your heart sink lower in your chest. Maybe you should have just confessed and gotten it over with, like that time you drank spoiled milk and knew you were going to have diarrhea so you punched yourself in the gut to make it happen faster. Wait, maybe this is not like that time. This is worse. Your phone tells you it’s time to go to class, but you know if you have to listen to your professor make any more references to his seasonal depression, your head will actually implode. Go to (D) to go to class or go to (F) to skip class and head to a friend’s apartment instead.