But you like it. It’s possibly the boldest thing he’s said all day, and when he takes a step forward, I can feel the heat radiating offhim. No wonder he was fine parting with his hoodie—the boy is a human sauna. You like being infuriated. By me.

Maybe that’s the definition of nostalgia: getting sappy about things that are supposed to be insignificant.

I guess it’s like, in my head, my writing can be as great as I want it to be. But as soon as I declare I’m a writer, I’ll have something to prove. It’s hard to admit that you think you’re good at something creative. And then it’s so much worse for women. We’re told to shrug off compliments, to scoff when someone tells us we’re good at something. We shrink ourselves, convincing ourselves what we’re creating doesn’t actually matter.

My favourite books got happily-ever-afters— why couldn’t I?

The love that I wanted so desperately: this isn’t what I thought it would feel like. It’s made me dizzy and it’s grounded me. It’s made me laugh when nothing is funny. It shimmers and it sparks, but it can be comfortable, too, a sleepy smile and a soft touch and a quiet, steady breath. Of course this boy—my rival, my alarm clock, my unexpected ally—is at the center of it. And somehow, it’s even better than I imagined.

When he grins, it’s bright enough to light up the night sky. It’s kind of beautiful.

Boy bands, fan fiction, soap operas, reality TV, most shows and movies with female main characters . . . We’re still so rarely front and center, even rarer when you consider race and sexuality, and then when we do get something that’s just for us, we’re made to feel bad for liking it. We can’t win.

How do you tell the person you’ve spent four years trying to destroy that you have a crush on them?

Today isn’t my epilogue with Neil—it’s a beginning. I’ll leave the happily-ever-afters in the books.