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The city moves on, relentless, unyielding—like Sophie.

I just stay the same.

Maybe it’s despair, maybeit’s boredom. Or maybe I just genuinely miss my friends. It’s a random Thursday night: I’m exhaustedfrom work and the gym, lying on the large flat couch that’s one of the only pieces of furniture I’ve bothered ordering so far.

It’s too early to go to bed: even if I try, I’ll just lie in bed tossing and turning and thinking about Sophie and how close and how far she is simultaneously and how she’s ashamed of being with me and how I begged her not to throw me away.

Maybe I’m seeking comfort, maybe wisdom. I find myself texting Zach without even thinking, scrolling past Sophie’s name several times before I settle for the other smartest person I know.

Evan: Is Oxford hard?

His reply comes a minute later. I can almost hear his dry tone and see his arched eyebrow in his text.

Zachary: It’s an absolute walk in the park.

Evan: Really?

Zachary: No.

I roll my eyes but continue doggedly.

Evan: Do you think Sophie’s having a hard time in Harvard?

Zachary: How should I know?

Evan: I’m worried about her.

Zachary: Then ask her?

Zachary: What on earth are you texting me for?

Evan: She won’t tell me. She won’t let me look after her.

Zachary: How is that my problem?

I glare at the text for a moment. It’s a good thing I didn’t text Zach for sympathy because he’s definitely not tripping over himself trying to provide some. I type out my reply and delete it several times before gathering the courage to actually send it.

Evan: Do you think it’s possible that deep down she still hates me after everything that happened in Spearcrest?

Zachary: Do you think I have time for this? I have lectures in the morning. If you need a heart-to-heart, call Sev or something.

I send him a picture of me giving him the middle finger.

He sends back a picture of a page from the book he’s reading, with a quote highlighted that says: ‘Anybody can become angry—that is easy. But to be angry with the right person, and to the right degree, and at the right time, and for the right purpose, and in the right way—that is not within everybody’s power and is not easy.’

He captions the picture: “Aristotle’sNicomachean Ethics, if you’re wondering.”

I type out the reply: Okay, but how does this help me—and immediately delete it. He wouldn’t answer anyway.

Evan: Pretentious asshole.

Zachary: Witless philistine.

I don’t know what that means, and I refuse to google it, although I do order a copy ofNicomachean Ethics, hoping I can give him a taste of his own medicine next time.

And I do follow his advice and call Sev, but when the French idiot finally picks up, he’s walking down a sunny street lined with trees, and he’s got an arm thrown possessively over his fiancée’s shoulders, and she’s feeding him a bite of an enormous bright pink doughnut and he speaks with his mouth full.

“Hey man, how’s it going?”