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Me: I passed.

Me: 78. Singh did not destroy me.

I send it before I can make it sound cooler.

For a minute, there’s nothing.

I tell myself that is normal. He’s probably working. Or sleeping. Or living some very serious doctor life that doesn’t involve waiting for updates from wrong-number medical students.

Then my phone buzzes.

D: Good.

One word. Of course.

I should roll my eyes. Instead, I feel it somewhere in my stomach.

Me: I’m too relieved to argue with “good” today.

D: Then don’t.

I smile.

Marco notices because he is unfortunately still nearby. “Is that him?”

I glance up. “Who?”

“Not-Evan.”

“Don’t call him that.”

“So yes.”

I turn away from him. “Go check your own grades.”

“I already did. Mine are upsetting but survivable.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you. Now tell your mystery tutor I appreciate him saving me from hearing you spiral for another day.”

“I was not spiraling.”

“You called the brachial plexus a hostile noodle system.”

“That was accurate.”

Marco laughs and walks off toward the vending machines.

I look back at the phone.

Me: I’m taking full credit publicly, by the way.

D: You should.

That makes me pause. It’s such a simple answer. No teasing. No claim on what he did. No little reminder that I needed him.

My throat tightens a little, which is embarrassing, so I swallow it down.