By Angelica Luzzi / Contributor
I wonder if she will text me back before tonight, before she goes out with her friends in Campo de Fiori, before she will find someone else to spend the night with. I hate myself; I always end up making the same mistake just to remind myself how bitter it tastes. What was I thinking? Brought her lunch during the only 15 free minutes that I have between a class and another. She didn’t even read my texts, and now I’m walking back with this dumb poke bowl in this dumb paper bag. I hate bridges; I have always hated bridges. I remember I hated bridges way before I was as young as this little girl dancing with her dad. I hated bridges way before the idea of a bridge became tainted with my sister’s death. I arrive to class just in time. I haven’t even brought a pen, and now I feel like everyone is looking at me weird. I would have done the same. I feel like everyone is staring at my rejection-paper-bag as if they could see how much of a loser I am, the kind of loser that doesn’t even trash the rejection-lunch he bought for a girl that does not even want it or want him. As if it mattered. As if they are going to remember me or the rejection printed on my forehead. The professor starts ranting about one of those tragically beautiful poems that make you feel like your tinder date rejecting you is not that big of a deal and that maybe you should call your mom back and maybe your grandma too. Now I feel even dumber. I switch back to reality as soon as I hear my name being called. “Yes” – “What do you think is the mindset of the author in this passage?” – “I think he is mad suicidal to be honest, Prof, but I guess everyone is, right?” nobody laughs with me, and now I am being asked to “stay for a moment” after class. I wonder what substitute of the term suicide he is going to use. I wonder what email he is going to write on a piece of paper. I wonder if she will text me back.