“What year are you in?” Please say fifth year. Please. Please. Please, God, make her say fifth year. “Third year.” Yeah, and that was that. She was in third year. And just like that, I watched my five-minute dream float out the window. Fuck. My. Life. “What about you?” she asked then, voice soft and sweet. “I’m in fifth year,” I told her, distracted by the sudden and prominent pang of disappointment churning around inside of me. “I’m seventeen—and two thirds.” “And two thirds.” She giggled. “Are the thirds important to you or something?” “They are now,” I muttered under my breath. Sighing in
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