The acceptance email comes on a Tuesday afternoon in June.
You are in her kitchen because neither of you could stand to be alone when it arrived.
The windows are open. It is too warm for early summer, the air thick and slow. A fan hums in the corner, pushing heat around without really helping. Yujin is sitting cross-legged on the chair, laptop balanced precariously on her knees, refreshing her inbox every thirty seconds like she can force the future into happening.
“You’re going to break the refresh button,” you say, leaning against the counter.
“It deserves it,” she mutters.
“You checked twelve seconds ago.”
“I could have received it in those twelve seconds.”
“You did not.”
She narrows her eyes at you. “You are not being supportive.”
“I am being statistically realistic.”
She gasps dramatically and throws a crumpled napkin at you. It misses by a wide margin.
You pick it up and toss it into the trash. “See. Terrible aim. They’re definitely not rejecting you for sports.”
She laughs despite herself, the sound bright and nervous.
You have been here every day this week when she checks. You pretend you are just hanging out. You both know why you are here.
She refreshes again.
Nothing.
She lets out a long groan and drops her forehead onto the laptop keyboard.
“If I get rejected, I’m moving to a cabin and raising goats,” she says into the keys.
“You don’t like goats.”
“I’ll learn.”
“You cry when dogs bark too loud.”
She lifts her head and points at you accusingly. “That was one time.”
Before you can respond, the soft chime of a new email cuts through the room.
It is small.
Barely noticeable.
But it might as well be thunder.
Both of you freeze.
Yujin’s hand hovers over the trackpad.
You can see her pulse in her throat.
“There,” you whisper.
She looks at the screen like it might vanish if she blinks.
“I can’t,” she says.
“You can.”
“What if it says no?”
You step closer, crouching slightly so you are level with her. “Then we get ice cream. And then you apply somewhere else. And then they regret it forever.”
She stares at you.
Then at the screen.
Then back at you.
“Okay,” she breathes.
She clicks.
Her eyes move across the screen once.
Twice.
Her expression does not change at first.
You feel your stomach drop.
Then her mouth opens.
She scrolls back to the top.
Reads it again.
Her hand flies to her lips.
“Oh my god,” she whispers.
Your heart is pounding so loudly you think she can hear it.
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