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“Is that what we are?” I grin at him like a fool.

“Oh look, there’s the disco ball!”

I smile wider, and he puts on his sunglasses.

Do I feel guilty for kissing Emma—twice?

Should I feel guilty? Probably

If anything, I feel like shit for putting her in this situation.

Fuck. I’m the girl who causes problems. Well, not the girl. But still…

Wait. I’m not coming between them. Hell, I don’t even know Evan. I mean, he seems like a good guy from a good family. And I have no doubt he loves Emma. But this isn’t about him.

It’s about me and Emma.

Our undeniable bond.

Our darkest secrets.

Our ugliest truths.

No one understands like we do. That means everything. And maybe I should lay off and let her see it for herself. There are five years between us. And it may feel like a lot now, but after she’s experienced more life, it won’t be.

What am I thinking? That I’m going to wait it out another five or six years until she chooses me? That’s stupid.

Is that even what I want? I have no fucking idea.

I haven’t talked to her in over a week, and I’ve had stupid ass conversations like this with myself way too many fricken times, and this result is just as useless as all the others.

It all comes down to… I don’t know what to do.

What I do know is that I miss her. And I can’t lose her.

As far as what I’m feeling…

I’ve only loved one girl my entire life. And I’ll always love her. But is it possible to love someone else?

Is that what this is? It doesn’t quite feel right, but it is intense—whatever it is. I don’t have a name for it.

And what about her? Again, I have no idea what she’s thinking or feeling.

But I do know that she keeps showing up in my life—her choice. Whether it’s a text, a call, or even knocking on my door when her world is imploding. She chooses me then. What am I supposed to think? That we’re friends? Friends don’t look at each other the way we do. I know this too damn well.

Wasn’t I the one who said to Emma that having girls as friends leads to complications? I was right. If only I'd stuck by that, I might not be so fucked up.

Dammit. I need to know what she’s thinking.

I’ve given her time… until today. Because I can’t keep doing this. Thinking about it. It’s driving me mad.

Running doesn’t help. This entire train of thought has plagued me during the five-mile loop I just finished.

I slow to a walk and decide to call her… again. Three strikes and all that.

It goes to voicemail.

Me: Emma, please talk to me. Please.