This isn’t a real date. Logan is not my real boyfriend. I think this to myself. Then I whisper it. And then, because I’m totally alone in this bathroom, I say it again with force while staring into my own eyes in the mirror. “This isn’t a real date. Logan is not my real boyfriend. None of this is real.” Yeah—no. I can say it all I want. But the words are not making a dent in the part of me that feels like this is all very, very real.
