I could picture it so clearly: me, sitting here in my grass-stained soccer shorts, boohooing like the world was ending because… what? I deleted a mean text? My best friend wanted d**k? My coach called me out?
“Get it together, Luna,” I sniffled, wiping my face with the hem of my shirt and only making it worse. “You’re not dying. You’re just… hormonal. Or dramatic. Or both. Probably both. Future me is gonna look back at this and be like ‘girl, you were really out here snot-crying on a wall like it was your therapy couch.’”
I pulled my knees up tighter, buried my face in my arms, and let the rest of the ugly tears come. They felt kinda good, actually—like popping a massive pimple of emotions I’d been holding in all day..
I stood up on shaky legs, brushing grass off my soccer shorts, and t
