The Upside of Unrequited

by Becky Albertalli

God, this phone number thing. Not that it’s a thing. It’s definitely not a thing. And I don’t know why I’m suddenly so breathless. I guess lungs are giant traitors. As are stomachs. As are heartbeats.

That’s another thing about me. If someone says I’m sad, or asks me what’s wrong, or tells me not to cry, it’s like my body hears: NOW CRY.

But maybe there are always tiny sad pieces inside me, waiting to be recognized and named. Maybe it’s like that for everyone.

I don’t know why I’m incapable of shutting up around this boy.

These days, Nadine talks about her boobs like they’re sentient beings. They’re always waking her up or leaking through her nursing bras or demanding to be drained, like cows on a dairy farm. They have their own boobish agendas.

Anyway, I still need to think of something to write to Reid. And it has to be funny and casual and badass. But it can’t seem like I’m trying too hard.

And suddenly, I’m mortified. I don’t know. It’s just hitting me how that sounds. For a price. Like it’s a sex thing. It reads like I’m flirting with him. Fuck.