***

After getting through a brunch served by the most suave guy on campus, the day takes us to a roller blading rink where Calvin falls on his ass multiple times, prompting Bev to make jokes about his skating skills or lack thereof, much to his irritation. We get ice-cream at a place next door to campus and lay down on an open field in a park as the food dribbles down our chins as though we're children.

We see a movie— some rom-com mystery I've been meaning to see for a while—and we argue about the movie as we walk down the sidewalks of our town afterward. 

Somehow, though, we end up at one of the house parties thrown by irresponsible sophomores. It's at a house belonging to someone extremely wealthy, likely a donor's kid, and there's an open garden where people are milling about.

Bev, Calvin and I walk alongside each other in a human chain to grab some food and drinks. I try a beer, seeing as I am now twenty-one, but it's beyond awful in taste, and Bev gives me her apple juice to wash the taste away. 

The Powell Posse makes our way onto the dance floor, twisting and turning, Bev in a long purple dress and a flowy white cardigan. Bev's hair bounces with her movements, and on my other side, Calvin twists from side to side in his half-buttoned dress shirt and dark jeans. We spin each other around, exhale laughs and pull each other close. 

Sedimentary comes in to play, settling into the living room with a makeshift set-up and students go absolutely insane as Xavier Jean twirls his drumsticks to kick off the first song. 

Side by side, Bev, Calvin and I sway to the beat. We jump once the song picks up. The lead singer, Presley O' Connor belts his notes out and stomps his combat boots on the wooden floor.  With Bev, Calvin and I in the front row, we're only five or so feet away from the band, so the music is deafening. 

I place my hands over my ears but don't stop dancing as Bev and Calvin jump up and down. Xavier hits the drums, and his eyes flick over to mine, grin going wide as he sees my dancing which likely imitates a fish out of water and my plugged ears. He places his hands over his own ears and mouths I know. Xavier's known for interacting with his fans, for pointing at people he knows in the audience or mouthing out their names. 

(The names often end up being widely contested. Case in point: a moment last year when two best friends split up arguing over if he had said Layla or Kayla, their respective names.)

The crowd goes nuts and Bev's elbow digs into my side, Calvin's fingers pinching my other side as though both are trying to inform me of what I just experienced. 

I exhale a laugh as Xavier gets back into drummer mode and the band continues to sing at the most deafening volume I can imagine. I'm nearly certain my ears are ringing but I love everything about it. About screaming so hard your voice goes raw, about jumping to the beat, about making eye contact with different members of the band who often grin if you catch their attention. It's not anything dramatic — after all, Sedimentary is still a local band and not world-famous by any means — but I couldn't care less. 

Once Sedimentary's performance draws to an end, I don't catch sight of Xavier for the rest of the afternoon as the bandmates chat up other students or each other, solo cups in hand. 

The sun is still bright, shining through the windows. Bev, Calvin and I are squished onto a couch, sharing a bag of chips. My eyes follow Calvin as his eyes fall to his watch. "Ah, shit. It's almost five." He says it as an afterthought, but everyone at Powell University knows what that means. 

Bev groans but slips her phone out of her pocket, awaiting for the notification. Everyone sits at the edge of their seat when Powell Press posts. Everyone's hungry to see who the next victim is. 

5 PM is the moment when Powell Press drops a story meant to detonate a student's life. I don't bother taking my phone out of my pocket when the notification goes off and everyone checks their phones. 

There's silence for a few moments, and I expect folks to take a quick look at the post, sigh in relief that it's not them, and go back to what they're doing. 

However, what I don't expect is to see Bev and Calvin meet my eyes, both their jaws slack. 

My heart suddenly falls to my feet. "What? What is it?"

Bev shakes her head, holding her phone out of reach. Calvin attempts to do the same, but he's too slow and I grab his phone, staring at the screen.

And sure enough, my worst fears are confirmed.

Today's Powell Press post are a series of letters I wrote. I'm attempting to inhale and exhale but I don't think I can breathe. These are letters I've written over the years, to people who I've known as far as my freshman year of high school. Middle school, even.

What's worse is that these letters are beyond vulnerable. These letters are to people I've fallen in love with, out of love with. These letters are deeply personal, often tear-stained as many of them were difficult to write. These letters are parts of me that I keep locked up, parts of me that define who I am. 

I have a letter to my first love in there, letters to people I've lost, to people I was in toxic relationships with. I'd assembled all the letters together, called them my letters to my makers, fakers and heartbreakers. 

I'm lucky I'm already seated, otherwise my knees would give way. 

How could anyone get a hold of my letters? I keep them safe, underneath my bed. My face is hot, and I do my all to avoid the piercing gazes of other students strewn about the mansion. 

"I'm sorry," Calvin says, but I barely process what he's saying.

These letters are personal. How could anything like this happen? My hands are shaking. 

One other thing about the Powell Press is that its posts go everywhere. Right now, my letters can probably be found on every social media site in the book. 

"Let's go, Eden," Bev says, grabbing onto one of my arms as Calvin grabs onto my other. The two of them tug me along, out of the room, away from the piercing eyes, and into our apartment.  

They settle me down on my bed. "It's okay, Eden, really."

But it's not okay. I have my phone open and the post is already getting thousands of interactions. It's been up for maybe ten minutes. On one social media site, it's already hit three-thousand likes. 

Rocking back and forth, I exhale a breath. I can't do this. I can't revisit the people of my past right now, and I certainly can't have the entire world revisiting them alongside me. 

I don't understand how this happened. I've carefully hidden the letters for years. My only roommate is Bev, but I can't fathom her ever snooping through my stuff.  Plus, she knows how hard high school and the first couple of years of college hit me. Bev, as imposing as she looks, is the type of girl that will comfort someone she's known for minutes, talk less of years. 

Bev's rubbing my back and Calvin's uttering assurances but I can't be sure of anything anymore. I continue to watch the screen as the interactions go up. Thousands of people are seeing my letters, thousands of people are reading them. 

And I'm betting, with my type of luck, that the folks the letters are addressed to are reading them as well. 

"This day can't get any worse," I'm laughing, but it's not funny.

And sure enough, the universe laughs right in my face and  I hear a knock at the door of my room. Calvin heads up to open the door and the boy I wrote my first letter to barrels in like my life is some sitcom.

In my room stands Wesley Byrne, hair still as blond as I remember and blue eyes wider than I remember. 

Wesley Byrne is in my room, my first love and first heartbreak. He's out of breath at the doorway. "I was in town and I just saw your letter to me on my feed." His eyes settle on me with a resolve, albeit a slightly frazzled one. "We need to talk."

I blink at him. I am anything but ready to revisit what went down between us; but it looks as though I have no other choice.

I was absolutely wrong before: the day can get far worse. 

Happy birthday to me, I guess.