Page 25 of The Last Love Story

We walk for another ten minutes before reaching a large metal door, so wreathed in shadow I would have completely missed it. Lena knocks twice, and then twice more. A code. After a long pause, the door squeaks open, hinges groaning against the weight.

It looks like this place used to be a closet. A large closet, of course, but still a closet. Now, tables line the space from wall to wall, all covered with stamps, pens, and rolls of paper. Dozens of kids I thought were long gone look up as Nef and I stand in the doorway.

“Nef and Ripley. New recruits. They’ll be on print,” Lena says brusquely.

A girl with dark braids raises her hand. “Over here.” She motions for Nef and me to join her at the end of a table.

Uri squeezes Nef’s shoulder before urging her on, and I follow.

I stare down at the pamphlets as the girl, Mo, explains where to write the list we’re printing in all of the pamphlets:

Twenty Questions President Graves Needs to Answer Before the Union Conference Next Week

My eyes run over the questions, which cover topics from human rights he’s been violating to environmental laws he’s nullified. The last one is bolded, and it catches my attention, just as I suppose it’s meant to:

Will you support a peaceful transfer of power when your second term is over in two months?

I open my mouth to say it’s an absurd question. Of course he will—every other president has, since this country was founded almost four hundred years ago.

But something slinks through my gut. Lyceum has been pushing to get the vote out.

What if that doesn’t matter at all? What if, like all other games, this one has been rigged?

All around us, the soft chatter of conversation fills the room with a pleasant hum. It’s so different from the training room, where computer fans whir and mice click like a percussion track. This is different. This feels like community,and I can tell Nef feels it too. She smiles softly at me as Mo finishes explaining how we can help. On the back wall, three people stand next to a giant machine that thrums as they move levers with ink-stained hands.

A printing press. Completely offline, untrackable. My heart swells at the sight.

“Just do as many as you can,” Mo says, moving a cup of pens closer to us. “Even one pamphlet makes a difference. Every vote counts.”

“Will do,” I say, nodding. Mo smiles warmly before going to help two girls who are struggling to cut a giant piece of paper down to size.

“Uri told me,” Nef says, lowering her voice as her hand moves evenly across the page.

“Told you what?” I ask, leaning my face closer to the paper so I can make sure I’m getting the spacing of the letters just right.

“That other people found your stories,” Nef says plainly.

I stop, lifting the tip of the pen from the paper and looking around to make sure no one else heard. Which is pointless. If Uri told Nef, then everyone here already knows aboutWritten in the Stars. Still, my face burns hot at the idea that anyone here has read my silly little fantasies.

“I didn’t mean for them to,” I reply, looking back to the paper just so I can look anywhere but my best friend’s face. “I only created the link for you. I was a kid. I didn’t thinkthrough that posting them meant other people could find them too.”

“I always loved hearing your stories, Ripley. And now, you’re, like... an author.” Nef’s voice pitches up with excitement. I give her a death glare.

“I am not an author,” I clarify, keeping my voice as low as possible. “I just... I wrote to process how I was feeling. It helped me make sense of things. It’s humiliating to think that anyone else read it.”

Nef tongues her cheek as she writes more. “At least I’m the only person to know that they’re about...”

I practically choke on my spit. “Nef!” I bark out. The idea of her saying that name here makes me feel like someone dumped a bucket of ants over my head.

The conversations around us stop for a heartbeat or two as everyone turns to look at us.

“I’m good.” I wave as Nef covers her mouth with her hand, trying and failing to hide her laughter. “All good. We’re fine over here,” I singsong before shooting Nef a wide-eyed glare.

She can’t hide her laughter anymore, and sits back in her chair.

I realize, then, that I’ve never seen Nef laugh like this. Her laugh isn’t polite, like the ones she’d give proctors who were trying too hard to crack a relatable joke. Her nose scrunches up, and she has a dimple in her left cheek.

My best friend has a great laugh. The thought makes me smile, even though I’m trying to keep my glare going.