TWO

A week later, I snap shots of plated dishes in portrait mode—a bread basket; burrata; a bowl of house-made cavatelli.

“Never has cheese been so photogenic,” I declare.

At Serra by Birreria, everything is. A trendy Manhattan rooftop has been transformed into an Italian countryside, lush and overrun by a vibrant swirl of flowers and greenery covering the ceiling and twisting down columns. Our corner table has a view of the entire garden in the clouds and all the staged vignettes I’ve seen in countless #SerraByBirreria posts. All beautiful. Trendy. Romantic.

And I want every memory captured.

Plants in bloom.

Flowers in our hair.

Fresh burrata before it’s on our tongues.

Us.

I’ve been doing this all week—snapping memories to make into a scrapbook of us, designed to leave Dani with a piece of me and to promise that the end of the summer won’t be a goodbye, just a “see you later.” So far, my camera roll includes us window-shopping in SoHo, taking the ferry to Ellis Island, and scoring cheap student rush tickets to see The Lion King on Broadway.

Also mixed in are some shots Dani took for If the Shoe Fitz. Content creation is never done, so I’ve had to devote a little bit of our week together to accessorizing my clothes with Lola Chung’s jewelry. It’s a huge deal that brands have started reaching out to me… and pretty much the only reason I can afford to be here. Mom and Dad couldn’t bankroll my summer. Even if they could, I know they wouldn’t. Fashion, to them, is a frivolous hobby. Direct quote. And my part-time hostess gig definitely wasn’t bringing in summer in New York money.

So I monetized my platform and made it happen.

Thankfully, Dani gets it. She’s as serious about acting as I am about fashion. It’s one of the things I love most about her, that she loses time mastering her lines the same way I obsess over crafting the perfect outfit for a photo.

“We’re inside an Instagram filter,” Dani says, processing the aesthetic.

I tilt my camera up in an attempt to get a stylized photo of Dani with the burrata. “I’m obsessed.”

It’s not just the burrata that I’m obsessed with. It’s Dani in a navy midi dress with tortoiseshell buttons, lips burgundy this time, her hair in two loose braids over her shoulders. She wears them better than me, the braids.

Click.

I love her.

Click.

I love her.

Click.

Say it, Fitzgerald.

Dani stabs the burrata with her fork, ruining my shot.

“Sorry,” she says, her tone implying that she’s very much not.

Shit.

I’m ruining this.

I upload a shot of just the burrata to my Story, then drop my phone in my purse and pull on a loose thread from a flower I hand-embroidered on the bohemian sleeves of my cream maxi dress. It’s not that I needed to share the most beautiful cheese I’ve ever seen with my followers. It’s just bonus content. I sprinkle impersonal slice-of-life anecdotes like makeup-free selfies, food porn, and the occasional book recommendation between my design tutorials and sponsored content as a reminder that there’s a real person—a real teenager—behind my account.

But right now?

These photos are a distraction.

It’s just, I’ve never said it—I love you—in a not-platonic way before. I’ve thought it. Hand-lettered it in sketch pads tucked under my bed. Wrote unsent love letters in the Notes app on my phone. I’ve wanted to say it. To Becca, the first person I came out to at theater camp in middle school after a tragic ankle sprain from attempting basic choreography. To Drew, the boy who helped me make sense of Shakespeare in exchange for help with his math homework on the bus freshman year. To Luna, a BookToker who also understood the pressures that come with a platform. Every time, I felt it. Love.

Feelings happen fast.

Words? Not so much.

Because when I let myself feel out loud… I’m too much.

Always.

So honestly? It was a relief when Dani asked if we could keep things casual after our first kiss. I like you, she’d confessed. But I’m moving to New York after graduation, so, like, I’m not looking for anything serious. Is that chill? I let my mouth against hers be the answer and have played it chill, cool, casual ever since. Let myself feel those three words without any pressure to say them.

Until Dani came to me with the application for this life-changing summer program at FIT.

You can see if New York fits, she said. Maybe this doesn’t have to end.

That was the moment I knew she loved me, too.

“Sorry. I’ve never done this.”

Dani’s lips curl up in a smirk that makes the tension in my shoulders disappear. “Eaten burrata on a Manhattan rooftop?”

“Well. Yes. But I mean—”

“Fitz. This might be better than Olive Garden.”

I exhale and smile at the Holy Grail of praise. Dani believes that Olive Garden breadsticks are their own food group. “Not bad for an Instagram filter?”

She takes another bite and moans. “So good.”

“Maybe it’s too good.”

Dani laughs, a loud cackle that results in a snort, which only makes her laugh harder.

It’s so sexy.

I love you slams against my rib cage with such incredible force.

I love the way you commit to every performance as if it’s on a Broadway stage. I love how your sister is your best friend in the whole world. I love that Pixar shorts make you cry. I love your rants about corporate social responsibility. I love that your socks never match. I love literally everything about you.

I want to reach for my phone, to text my best friend, Natalie. Is this how it’s supposed to feel? Because it feels like a medical emergency. But I’m done being chill. So over casual. We’re in New York City. Together.

There’s never going to be a more perfect moment.

“Dani, I—”

“Wait. No way. Fitz?”

—love you.

The words die in my throat as an unfamiliar voice has the audacity to cut me off mid-declaration. I turn my head and make eye contact with a short teen standing over our table sporting a blunt bob and bright blue eye shadow. Should I know this person? I must. They obviously know me.

“Hi—?”

“Wow. Okay. I thought I saw you from my table—” Blonde Bob points across the patio. “I love your posts, like, so much. I’m Gina.”

Wait.

Blonde Bob, Gina, follows me?

“I think she’s short-circuiting,” Dani teases.

“I’m just…” I gape. “Gina, you just made my entire life.”

I know my metrics. 12.4K followers. Enough for small brands like Lola Chung to start to reach out to me and for biphobic trolls to enter my DMs. But like. I’m a baby influencer. 12.4K is not a meet a follower in the wild number.

And yet.

“Can we take a photo?” Gina asks.

“Oh my God. Definitely!”

Gina hands her phone to Dani, who takes it, her lips pressed in a thin smile.

“I’m making my own homecoming dress,” Gina says. “Well. I’m trying to. Your prom look inspired me.”

“Incredible,” I say. “What are you working with?”

I can’t process the fact that Gina wants a photo with me, but I can talk design.

“I’m a dancer, so an abundance of tulle.”

“Bold, I love it. Pro tip: if your machine doesn’t have a Teflon foot, clear tape is a lifesaver.”

Gina and I are incapable of keeping our eyes open at the same time, and when Gina asks for one more after assessing the photos, Dani doesn’t even try to hide her eye roll.

“Sure! My camera is great in low light,” I say to cover, handing over my phone instead.

Am I annoyed that Gina interrupted our moment? A little. But I’m not going to be rude. Plus I’m still processing being recognized. I find and follow Gina on Instagram, note the she/her pronouns in her bio, and DM her the photo. But confirming receipt turns into her showing me her dress progress, extending this impromptu meet-and-greet. Eventually, Gina leaves us for her food with a wave goodbye and I’m floating. I interact with my followers’ comments and DMs daily. I know there are people behind the screens. But meeting someone who knows my work—and not only cares about it but also is inspired by it?

It’s so validating.

“Is this fame?” I joke.

Dani stabs her ziti. “I don’t think so.”

I laugh. “Definitely not. Still. How does it feel to be dating an influencer?”

“Honestly? Not great.”

I float right into a concrete wall. “What?”

Dani drops her fork. Her lower lip wobbles.

I did something wrong.

“You didn’t introduce me to Gina.”

I frown. “The interaction happened so fast, and it caught me off guard. I didn’t mean to—”

Dani cuts me off. “You didn’t even remember I was here. Until you needed a photo.”

I’m so confused.

“You’re mad about taking a photo?”

“Not a photo. Every photo. Is it too much to ask that we go one day without taking a fucking picture?”

I blink away tears. “That’s… really harsh.”

“I spent my first week in New York City—the place I’ve been dreaming of moving to only my entire life—taking photos of you.”

“Photos of us.”

“Seriously?”

“What? It’s an important distinction!”

I reach for my phone to open my camera roll and scroll through the hundreds of photos of us—setting up our suite in Union Square, holding up the Mamoun’s falafel we stood in line for, being basic tourists roller-skating in Rockefeller Center.

“It might start with us, but then it becomes about you. It always becomes about you and your content.”

“It’s not—”

“Even tonight is just about photos. You brought me to an overpriced Instagram filter and spent so much time taking a picture of cheese that I sat here in silence. For ten minutes.”

I—

Did I really fixate on burrata for that long?

She continues, “Sometimes it feels like I’m just your photographer.”

No. No. No.

Dani is reading this all wrong.

I shake my head. “Dani. Listen. I’m sorry for all the photos… but it’s my work. And those photos are how I can afford to be here this summer with you. So really, even those photos are for us. You know that! You seriously cannot think you’re just my photographer. That’s bullshit.”

“Is it?” Dani whispers, looking down at her plate.

Does she really not know?

I reach for her hand and press her fingers against my pulse. “You are not my photographer. You’re my favorite person. All week I’ve been trying to find the words to tell you that I’m over pretending we’re casual because the way I feel about you is anything but casual. I—”

“Don’t.”

“—love you.”

Finally. The phrase tumbles out in a rush, so quick I don’t register the word that’s meant to intercept it—not until I’m met with silence and a lift in the pressure of her icy fingers on my wrist. I look up and see tears streaming down Dani’s cheeks this time.

Don’t.

“I didn’t want you to say it,” she whispers to her plate, unable to even look at me.

“What?”

Dani reaches for her purse and stands. “I need space.”

Space? Since when? This summer was her idea. You can see if New York fits. Maybe this doesn’t have to end. New York was my dream too, before I even knew Dani, so I applied without hesitation.

Now… she needs space?

Never has a word made less sense.

“Dani. We live together.”

We each have our own roommate in a shared suite, but still. When I got in, Dani was the one who suggested rooming together. I asked if she was sure and her kiss was definitive.

Yes.

But now she says, “A mistake.”

Nope. I take that back. Mistake makes even less sense.

“Because of some pictures?”

“Yes. And no.” Her burgundy lips stretch into a sad smile. “You beam when you talk about clothes. I never understood that description in a script—how to convey it—until you. I don’t think you even know it. I’m so addicted to your glow. And I guess I thought this summer could be about that, us connecting over our art… but it’s just been me following you around as you search for the perfect backdrop to promote fucking ugly bracelets.”

“Lola Chung’s bracelets are not ugly.”

“Fitz.”

“I’m sorry! Not the point. I’ll—”

She cuts me off. “These last few days made me realize I haven’t even seen that glow in a while. Your Instagram-life balance was nonexistent even before the brand deals. Now you’re always looking for a photo op for your followers. Isn’t it exhausting? I’m exhausted. And if that’s what you want to focus on, if you’d rather have a follower or a photographer than a girlfriend… maybe we should’ve left our relationship in high school.”

I blink.

Oh my God.

Danica Martinez is breaking up with me.

“But I love you,” I repeat. I don’t know what else to say. “I love you.”

Her eyes meet mine, shimmering tears streaming down her cheeks, before she pivots and walks away.

Just leaves me.

Then, my phone pings… with a Venmo notification.

Danica M. paid you—

My phone slips out of my hand before I finish reading.

I hear the crack of glass on concrete.

And I shatter too.