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Being alone in a new college town was kind of like watching the local news in a hotel room. With someone else it could be amusing and fun. By yourself, it was a little depressing.
Agatha reached for the pen in her bag. “Balayage?” “Yeah. It’s like, super expensive Christian girl hair.”
She felt as if her body had gotten its braces off. Like she’d reentered her room after a deep clean.
Agatha hated stories like this—Getting-There Stories. It was like someone talking about their dreams. They were only interesting to the person they’d happened to.
A ruthless silence settled over the table and Agatha took a bath in it.
It always seemed like while she’d been deciding what to do with her time, she’d somehow completely wasted it.
But even if it was happening in her dorm, just an elevator ride away, Kennedy never felt like she had enough time. And she couldn’t tell what would be worse, showing up to see that she was one of two attendees, or arriving to a bigger group of already acquainted people. And then there was what she’d wear or what kind of shoes she should bring. Ten minutes was never enough time to figure out how to be a person.
Kennedy hadn’t considered it before, that to write something beautiful you just do it regular, and then you pull out a red pen.
Story is literally in our DNA,
It was very easy to have sex in college, but it was even easier not to.
Quite possibly the saddest sensation Millie had ever known was this: that someone cared for you but not like you cared for them.
