Writers (in order): Diya Agrawal, dhruti h, Binny Park, Anahy Ma, Claudia Bloom, Emily Hwang*, katie c, Alyssa Tang, Gisela Bunch

Editor: Irene Tsen

*wrote more than once

“Twelve midnight and my heart hammers in my ears as I squint at the calendar until the numbers blur, willing it to read 13 instead of 12 or at least Tuesday instead of Monday. And yet no amount of telepathy can change the fact that today is yesterday all over again!”

He stares at me, flushed and glassy-eyed. His emotions are so poignant that I almost grant Noah the benefit of the doubt, but it just isn’t possible. He is going to drive himself crazy if he hasn’t already, and at this rate take me down with him. Unable to muster even a nod, I have no choice but to walk away.

It’s not like I don’t feel bad. I really do. But I’m not going to go down with him, or anyone for that matter, because I would hate to waste my life on a person who is just going around in cycles.

“WAIT!” Noah yells while running after me. “I’ll prove it to you. I’ll prove it to you somehow. Just give me a chance, please?”

I pause and turn back around toward him. “Okay. How? How are you going to do that?”

“Uhhh, give me a second to think,” he replies, “OH! OH! Lunch! You have, er, had, a turkey sandwich for lunch with lettuce and tomatoes and swiss cheese!”

“Hm. That could’ve just been a lucky guess.”

“NO, YOU HAVE TO BELIEVE ME! I’M TELLING THE TRUTH, I PROMISE!”

I ignore him and make my way to my kitchen sink. As I turn on the faucet to get myself some water, I look down to see the three plates from earlier, ready to be washed. I see mine at the very top—it still has a piece of sandwich bread, and on the floor there’s a piece of swiss cheese. I knew Noah was lying to me. My parents and I left all this evidence of our meal from earlier; he just put together the pieces of what we had for lunch and used it to convince me.

I put my cup down on my kitchen table and walk towards Noah, who is sitting in my living room staring off into space. I slump into the crinkly leather couch, its pillows making a poof as I sit down. I glance at Noah, who seems to be lost in his erratic thoughts. I exhale. The couch pillows are consuming me.

“Look, Noah…” I offer him.

He suddenly lifts from his trance. “Y-yes,” he sputters.

“Tell me more about what’s going on.”

“So you believe me? You’re here to assure me that I’m not crazy?”

“I never said that. I just want to understand your point of view.” I think my supportive dad-like tone will ease him up a bit. Then, I can uncover what’s really going on. Like a therapy session.

“Has anything… traumatic happened in your childhood?” I say, stroking my nonexistent beard.