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“This is a close-up photo of the gate’s chipped paint. While we make new memories entering school, we still carry the old ones,” I tell Jian and Alondra as I show them an Instagram photo of my school’s gate.

After explaining my editing process, Alondra says, “Love it! Brings me back to high school!”

“Same,” Jian says. “And undergrad.”

“What was it like?” I ask. “Undergrad I mean.”

“Best four years of my life,” Jian says. “Made some awesome friends and majored in something I love.”

“Me too,” Alondra says. “My parents wanted me to attend UC Irvine, but I loved Dillon’s screenwriting program. Best decision I ever made.”

Jian tells me about his film classes while Alondra tells me about her screenwriting seminars, both animated as they speak. I see myself in those classes, except my professor is Lalaine Bautista, and she’s teaching me different camera angles.

“We’re showing our film here tonight.” Alondra points to the flyer framed beside the cash register, where Jaya chats with a guy with blue hair. The flyer is green with aliens reaching out like they’re about to attack you.

“It’s perfect for a date night.” Jian nods past my shoulder, and I follow his gaze to see Jase.

Since I left WCH, I texted Nora explaining what happened, adding that she no longer needs to come over with tostadas. She replied with a chain of clapping emojis. I texted Jase the same thing, and he invited me over to Blossoms to share more photos and songs.

Jian’s words, along with his nod to Jase, click together, and my cheeks flame connecting the dots.

“We’re just friends,” I clarify.

Alondra locks her arm around Jian’s. “I said the same thing before you asked me out.”

“Yes, you did.” Jian plants a kiss on Alondra’s cheek.

My own cheeks flame even more. It scares me to admit that I now know this unfamiliar feeling—I like Jase. But I’m so used to admiring from afar that I can’t come prepared for anything more.

“Um, thank you for listening,” I say.

“Of course! It was our pleasure!” Alondra says.

“See you both tonight?” Jian says, looking from Jase to me.

“Maybe,” I say without thinking.

I hurry back to the table, and Jase types something as he reads the chalkboard, which has “passion,” the theme for the final photograph, written in pink block, the letters opaque.

“Way more fun sharing pictures than volunteering at some hospital, right?” he says.

“Only by a million percent,” I reply.

Jase taps on his screen, then hands his phone to me. He’s selected an extension of “jordan,” but my eyes lock onto the song at the bottom of the list. “passion.”

“You didn’t tell me you had a new song—”

“Wait! Don’t play that one yet!”

I look up, arching an eyebrow. I’ve never seen Jase this nervous.

“It’s not ready yet.” He scratches the back of his head.

I almost tell him I can listen to what he has so far, just as I’ve done with his other songs, but instead, I say, “Okay.”

The extended version of “jordan,” now a minute long, strums heavily through my ears. I bob my head to the melody. It’s smoother, more polished.

“It’s almost perfect!” I beam. “Totally reminds me of your little brother.”