Page 151 of A Solid Guide to Surviving a Situationship

Two words.

That was all it took.

Just enough to make me question the ground I was standing on.

I looked away, swallowing, letting my eyes drift toward the city outside the window, hoping it would offer me clarity.

And for a second, I almost let it happen—almost let his version settle into something true.

But then memories slipped in…

Andi and I on the first day of college, introducing ourselves like we didn’t know we were about to become something permanent. Two strangers, sitting side by side in class, talking like we had already chosen each other.

“I already love you, James” she said. “And this is just the first day.”

Then a year later, at the hallway—running into Mel, who rolled her eyes at us.

She hated the clique Andi and I belonged.

Until one night the three of us found ourselves under the stars, sitting on cold pavement, talking about Francis, about classes, about the life ahead—like we already knew we’d be part of each other’s futures. Like it wasn’t a question anymore, just a fact we hadn’t said out loud.

And then graduation.

The three of us lying on the university grounds. Togas on. Caps tossed somewhere we didn’t bother to find. Laughter slipping into the open air, careless and loud and earned.

We made it.

And somehow, in between the chaos and change, we knew we weren’t letting go of each other even after.

The memory shifted. Andre—texting me every hour after Kyle and I broke up, like it was his full-time job to make sure I was still okay.

“Are you alive?”

“Did you drink water?”

“If you spiral, I’m coming over.”

“I’m serious, James.”

“I know you. You’re an adult, but still a baby at heart.”

“My date can wait. I’m coming over to take care of you. You’re my forever baby from now on.”

And then five minutes later⁠—

“Also, Kyle is ugly. WTF did you see in him?” As though they weren’t friends.

I remember laughing through the ache. Because that was Andre: intense, overprotective, and somehow still ridiculous enough to make it easier to breathe.

Then Honey—always composed, always intentional.

I remembered seeing her standing in front of a mirror, turning slightly, tilting her chin, and adjusting an outfit like it was art, not clothing. She knew exactly who she was before the world even tried telling her otherwise.

She told me once, “If you’re going to be seen, at least be unforgettable.”

And then another memory of her on a random Tuesday night came flashing back. No make up. Hair tied back. Sitting beside me on the floor while I cried over Rick.

She didn’t say much for someone who always had the right words.