I put my forehead on his collarbone, place one hand on his chest. Its rhythm reassures me: He is real, and he is now.

My heart is drumming in my chest so hard it aches, but it's the good kind of ache, like the feeling you get on the first real day of autumn, when the air is crisp and the leaves are all flaring at the edges and the wind smells just vaguely of smoke - like the end and the beginning of something all at once.

It's like high school holds two different worlds, revolving around each other an never touching; the haves and the have-nots. I guess it's a good thing. High school is supposed to prepare you for the real world, after all.

That's the way I feel, at least: like there's a real me and a reflection of me, and I have no way of telling which is which.