dow. The next morning, my phone buzzed. It was Ethan. I stared at his name, a k

from the printer on 47th. Scarlett needs them for a read-through this afternoon." The request was so normal, so completely oblivious, it was almo

remembered the day I got my acceptance letter. I had run all the way to Ethan' s tiny walk-up, waving it in the air, screaming with joy. He was so proud, but then we sat down and looked at the numbers. His play had just been accepted in

horns and sirens, felt like it was drilling into my skull. My body was a stranger to me now, a ticking clock. I felt so t

k you. He looked at me, really looked at me for the first time all day, and his brow furrowed. "You look terrible. Are you getting sick again?" He said it like an accusation, like my failing health was a personal inconv