~Quinn~

"Are you awake?"

The text comes at 3:47 AM, lighting up my dark bedroom.

I've been staring at my ceiling for hours, watching shadows move across the plaster, replaying the moment I found that letter over and over until the memory has worn grooves into my brain. The look on Noah's face. The cream-colored paper. The weight of those two words: January 2nd.

I grab my phone, my heart doing something complicated in my chest.

Me: Can't sleep

The response is immediate.

Noah: Me either

Noah: I keep thinking about today

Noah: About your face when you found the letter

I pull my comforter up to my chin, suddenly cold despite the heat blasting through the vents. What do I say to that? Yeah, finding out my best friend is abandoning me was super fun?

Noah: I should have told you sooner

Noah: I wanted to. So many times. But every time I tried, I just…

The dots appear and disappear. Appear and disappear. I wait, holding my breath, willing him to finish the sentence.

Noah: I didn't want it to be real yet

Something in my chest cracks open, spilling hurt and confusion and a desperate kind of hope I have no right to feel.

Me: Is that why you lied about the state university?

Noah: I didn't lie. I really did apply there. Got in too.

Noah: London just... they offered me a full ride. And the program is exactly what I want. And it felt like a sign, you know?

A sign. I stare at the word, feeling something cold settle in my stomach.

Me: A sign of what?

The pause is longer this time. So long I think maybe he's not going to answer. Then:

Noah: A sign that maybe it was time for something different

Different.

The word feels like a slap. Different from what? From here? From his life?

From me?

Me: You could have talked to me about it

Noah: I know

Noah: I'm sorry

Noah: Are we okay?

I look around my room—at the corkboard above my desk covered in photos of us, at the soccer ball he signed for me when he made varsity, at the constellation of glow-in-the-dark stars we stuck to my ceiling in eighth grade. Evidence of eleven years scattered across every surface.

Me: We'll be okay. After the dares.

Noah: Quinn

Noah: What are these dares really about?

My thumbs hover over the keyboard. I could tell him the truth right now. Could type out I'm in love with you and I'm terrified of losing you and hit send before I lose my nerve.

But it's 3:50 in the morning and I'm exhausted and my defenses are too low. If I start this conversation now, I'll say everything—all the messy, desperate, pathetic things I've kept locked away for six years.

Me: You'll find out. Get some sleep.

Noah: You're not going to tell me?

Me: Where's the fun in that?

Noah: You're going to kill me with curiosity

Noah: But fine. I'll wait.

Noah: Goodnight, Q

Q.

He's the only person who's ever called me that. Started when we were eight and he decided "Quinn" took too long to say when he was trying to get my attention on the playground.

Me: Goodnight, Noah

I set my phone on my nightstand and close my eyes, but sleep doesn't come. My brain won't stop spinning, planning, catastrophizing. What am I even hoping to accomplish with these dares? That Noah will suddenly realize he's been in love with me all along? That he'll cancel London and declare his feelings in some grand romantic gesture?

Real life doesn't work that way.

But maybe... maybe I can make sure he doesn't forget. Maybe I can leave him with memories strong enough that an ocean between us won't erase everything we've been to each other.

I finally drift off around 5 AM, still wearing my clothes from yesterday, my phone clutched in my hand.

******

When I wake up, it's past noon and Harper is sitting at the foot of my bed eating Lucky Charms straight from the box, examining something in her other hand.

"This is either really sweet or really creepy," she says, holding up a pressed flower—dried and fragile, preserved between two pieces of wax paper. "I haven't decided which."

I groan and pull a pillow over my face. "How long have you been sitting there?"

"Long enough." She sets down the cereal box, her expression shifting to concern. "You okay?"

"Not really."

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

"Too bad." Harper yanks the pillow away from my face. "Spill."

I sit up, my head fuzzy from too little sleep. My mouth tastes like regret and poor decisions. "I'm doing it. The thing we talked about yesterday. I came up with 12 stupid dares for me and Noah."

"Twelve dares?" Harper's eyes light up like I've just told her Christmas came early. "Quinn! That's amazing!"

"It's stupid."

"It's brave," she corrects, bouncing slightly on my mattress. "What's the first dare?"

"Meeting at our oak tree at sunset."

"The one where you carved your initials when you were kids?" Harper grins. "God, that's romantic."

"It's not romantic. It's nostalgic. There's a difference."

"If you say so." But she's still grinning like she knows something I don't. "What comes after that?"

"I don't know yet." I gesture vaguely at my room. "That's the problem. I need eleven more dares. Eleven more chances to remind him why we're..."

I trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence. Why we're what? Important to each other? Worth fighting for? Supposed to be more than friends?

"Why you're what? Soulmates?" Harper asks cheerfully.