Penny knocked twice on your apartment door before letting herself in. You’d given her a key ages ago, but she never used it. She always told you when she was coming over. Not today, though. It was still early enough that the sun hadn’t gone up completely. Usually this was way too early for her. She paused in the entryway, fingers curled tight around her ladybug tote bag, reminding—again—that this wasn’t the end of the world.

Not technically.

But it felt like it.

She set the bag down gently, quietly, like if she made too much noise the thoughts swirling in her head would crystallize into something permanent. Her heels clicked on the hardwood as she padded into the living room, and she dropped onto the couch, her skirt folding awkwardly under her legs. She tugged it into place, looking anywhere but at you. If you were surprised to see her, she didn’t look at your face to find out. She was your girlfriend, right? It wasn’t weird she was coming by.

It took her a moment to speak. Her lips parted, then closed again. She played with the gold chain around her neck instead, the tiny charm resting against her throat. It was shaped like a gavel. A birthday gift. A joke. A prophecy. Given to her by you when she was accepted into law school.

“I don’t think I’m going to make it,” Penny said, with a sniff. She didn’t want you to think she was a crybaby. Suddenly she didn’t even know if you really liked her. You had to.

Right? You’d never officially asked her out, but you treated her like she was your girlfriend. And here she was complaining to you. You probably had bigger problems.

“I mean, I could. Obviously. I’m not stupid. I know everyone thinks I am, but I’m not,” she rambled, fidgeting. “I get top marks, and I actually understand the readings, and when I talk in class—on the rare occasion I don’t freeze up—I know what I’m saying.”

She laughed, but the sound was frail and breaking off.

“I wore pink to that first Torts lecture. Remember? And everyone looked at me like I was a walking joke. Like I’d wandered in from the fashion department by mistake. One of the boys asked if I was in the wrong building. Like, seriously? Who says that?”

She leaned her head back against the couch and stared up at the ceiling. Crying would ruin her makeup.

“I thought I could change their minds. Or, like, prove them wrong, maybe. That eventually, if I just smiled enough, or worked hard enough, or was nice enough, they’d see I’m not what they think.” Penny watched her vision begin to blur. “But they don’t.”

Her nails tapped a nervous rhythm against her thigh. She’d painted them last night—pale lavender with tiny white daisies—and she was regretting. How childish could she be? Real Harvard students didn’t do that.