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But you don’t remember shit.What a clusterfuck. Do the credits count if I remember nothing?Eh, who cares? People learn on the job, anyway.

Dr. Riordan told me I most likely kept my accumulated knowledge—as evidenced by how marketing concepts were familiar when I read old textbooks to re-familiarize myself.

I just don’t remember learning the concepts.

I snort and shake my head. I’m a hustler. Whichever direction life blows me into, I’ll find my way.

If I take a full course load—most of which can be done online—and don’t take summers off, I can graduate in two years.

I’ll need to bust my ass, but I can do it.

Determined, I click to the next page and review my course selections. BUS 30: Financial Accounting Post Sarbanes Oxley, ATH 301: Beginner’s Swimming Elective, because I need to do more than just float. I need to fight my nightmares. If I knew how to swim back then, maybe I wouldn’t have lost eight years, and I want to take up a physical activity—something that’s easier on my body.

I look at my twitchy right leg. The limp has gotten much better, but it’ll always be there—a physical battle scar from my accident.

No more ballet for me.

There’s no way I can handle the rigors of dancing.

Another devastating loss. My fingers knead the tense muscles on my thigh, my eyes prickling. I used to live for ballet.

It doesn’t matter. One bad chapter doesn’t mean the rest of the book is horrible.Snapping my fingers, I refocus on the screen.

There’s one tricky class—MKT 462: Corporate Marketing Immersion—which will require me to spend six months interning at a company of my choice. This program is new to UNYC and allows students to get hands on experience in the real world. More importantly, the number of course credits is three times that of a normal class, which means I can graduate sooner.

I’ll need to find a company to take me on as an intern, but I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.

But before I click submit, my mouse hovers over the last course—a general elective class—ENG 203: Creative Poetry.

My heart races and I’m suddenly winded, even though I haven’t so much as moved in my chair.

I’ve always been a reader—that much, I remember—but I don’t recall gravitating toward poetry. Romance novels and historical fictionhave been my jam. But somehow, when it comes to selecting a general elective course, my mind won’t let me pick anything else.

A sudden wave of sadness sweeps inside me.

A hole in my heart. I’m forgetting something important. Something I’m desperate for, but can’t reclaim.

My computer pings. A news update pops up.

I scan the headlines. The stock market rallies over news of a potential merger between Fleur and another entertainment company. I flag it for later.

A businessman was assassinated in prison and something about a shady organization known as The Association. I frown—what in the conspiracy shit is this?

A wave of nausea hits me from nowhere and my head throbs.

Closing my eyes, I breathe through my nose as the worst of the churning passes. Sweat beads on my forehead and I grip the side of my desk for support.

What on earth is wrong with me? Is this one of those side effects Dr. Riordan mentioned?

My laptop pings again and after the weird spell passes, I open my eyes to find a new email on top of my inbox.

I exhale when I see the newest email from my Letters of Hope pen pal, Polaris.

To:[email protected]

From:[email protected]

Subject: The Perfect Ending