She doesn’t want me around the customers, so she assigns me the task of writing down every ISBN number in the store. While recording numbers, I listen to the formulaic pop music blasting through the store’s speakers and think about my ex-boyfriend—any of them—and how much I miss him. If I think about it, I miss everyone I’ve ever met. It takes me days, weeks, months—what feels like forever—to write all the numbers down. In fact, I’m positive there’s an alternate universe where I’m still only halfway done, watching the FedEx guy roll in more carts stacked with boxes for the impending fall semester while Taylor Swift plays throughout the store. There are so many alternate universes and all of them are terrifying.

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