A second later, the confirmation message appeared on screen:
Submission successful.
“Easy, wasn’t it?” She grinned, leaning back in her chair with satisfaction.
“Speak for yourself. I think I aged five years in the last thirty seconds,” I said, slumping forward onto the table dramatically.
“You’re such a drama queen,” she laughed, reaching across to flick my forehead gently. “We killed that project, and you know it. Professor Chen is going to love our research.”
“I hope so, because we put our entire soul into it.”
“Our soul and your anxiety.”
I stuck my tongue out at her. “It’s called the art of overthinking. Every philosopher does it. Kierkegaard basically built a career out of it.”
She rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered. “You just compared your nervous breakdown to existential despair.”
“Exactly. Authenticity,” I replied gravely.
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet, deeply necessary,” I countered, lowering my voice as if I were delivering a lecture. “Where would reason be without passion? Plato said they’re both parts of the soul, remember?”
Her eyes sparkled at that. “You’re quoting Plato to justify your nerves?”
“Better than quoting Nietzsche to defend my chaos,” I said, grinning as she chuckled.
We packed up our things, bantering back and forth as we headed out of the library into the February air. The snow was lighter now, but everything was still covered in that pristine white blanket that made the campus look postcard-perfect...
“So,” I said as we approached her car, “I’ve been thinking about getting a job.”
She stopped walking. “A job? What for?”
“What do you mean, what for? Money, obviously. You can’t keep taking care of me.”
“Why not?” She said it in a tone, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I’ve got plenty. You don’t need to stress.”
I stared at her. Sometimes I forgot how different our worlds were. “Marley, I can’t just live off you indefinitely. I need my own income.”
“We’ll talk about it later,” she said, waving a dismissive hand as she unlocked the car. “Right now, I’m more concerned with celebrating our project submission. And your hair looks amazing today, by the way.”
I touched my cornrows self-consciously. “Come on, it’s just cornrows. It’s nothing special.”
“Are you kidding? You look like a goddess, seriously.” She pulled out her iPhone. “Let me get a picture.”
“Marley, no?—”
“C’mon, you look ethereal.”
“I don’t,” I protested.
But she was already snapping photos, moving around to get different angles while I protested and laughed. I rolled my eyes in mock exasperation, and she kept making little appreciative noises behind the camera.
“Okay, okay, let me see,” I said, reaching for the phone.
She handed it over, and I scrolled through the pictures. They were beautiful. I looked happy, radiant even, my smile genuine and bright.
“These are gorgeous,” I murmured. “Send them to me?”
