Apparently there were worse things than having a crush.
Like having hope.
Hope is a dangerous, unpredictable thing on a college campus. It sneaks up on you when you’re trying to decode a chemistry textbook, and it completely ruins your focus.
"If you stare at that periodic table any harder, you’re going to burn a hole through the paper," Mia says, throwing a crumpled-up sticky note at my head.
I blink, rubbing my eyes as the library's fluorescent lights blur together. It’s nearly ten o'clock on a Tuesday night, and the student lounge in the basement of the library is dead silent except for the frantic typing of stressed-out freshmen. A mountain of flashcards, highlighters, and an empty iced caramel macchiato cup sit between us.
"I’m trying to memorize cellular bonds," I groan, resting
