The morning light cut through the mountain mist like a scalpel, slicing along the treetops surrounding the ski lodge where Emily "Em" Davis found herself, once again, second-guessing her entire existence. There were birds chirping, and snow gently frosting the deck, and Mike was still asleep inside, blissfully unaware of the mental marathon she'd already been on before 8 a.m.

But this wasn't about the mountain. This wasn't about Wendigos or weird caves or the worst cabin weekend in the history of cabin weekends. No—this was about the PSAT.

A test. A stupid, stupid test.

Emily sipped her lukewarm coffee and looked out at the wilderness, her brain spiraling back to that day in junior year—the day she'd first learned what it meant to feel like a failure before anyone actually told you that you were one.

It was 9:37 a.m. in the Ridgeview High multipurpose room, and she could still smell the stale pencils and institutional carpet and a faint scent of someone's Axe body spray clinging to the vent. The rows of desks were too close together, everyone's knees bumping. She remembered chewing the skin off her bottom lip as she stared down at the practice test booklet.

Mike had sat a few rows ahead of her. Matt had been across the room. And the proctor, Mrs. Kowalski, looked like she had crawled straight out of a DMV horror movie.

She turned the page to a reading comprehension section. A paragraph about mollusks. No. Was it mollusks? Or voting rights? No, mollusks came later. The page had some hideous block of text that made her eyes water. It was like trying to decode alien poetry.

All around her, pencils scratched calmly. And then someone sniffled. And someone else flipped a page. And she—Emily Davis, the girl who always knew everything—felt like her brain had been replaced with a pile of microwaved spaghetti.

You should be good at this, she remembered thinking. You're smart. You're not one of the clueless ones.

But the words wouldn't stick. The logic questions mocked her. By question 6 she was sweating. By question 10, her heart was racing. By question 13, she felt like she was drowning.

And that's when she did it.

She stood up. In the middle of the test. In front of 60 other juniors. In front of Mike. In front of Matt.

"Miss Davis?" Mrs. Kowalski asked, peering over her glasses like Emily had grown a third arm.

"I need the restroom," Emily said, voice a little too sharp.

"Restroom breaks are only allowed between—"

"I'M GOING TO THE BATHROOM," Emily announced, shoving her chair back so hard it squealed.

A ripple of whispers followed her. Mike definitely snorted. Or coughed. Or maybe that was just her paranoia. Either way, she didn't look back.

Inside the girls' bathroom, Emily had locked herself into the farthest stall and slid down against the wall until she hit tile. The floor smelled like bleach and some cheap lemon cleaner. It was freezing.

She sat there, shaking. Not crying, exactly. But close.

She pulled out her phone to check the time, only to remember that phones were banned during testing. She panicked for a second, then shoved it back in her bag.

"Great," she muttered. "Now they'll probably think I'm cheating and mentally unstable."

That was when the door creaked open, and someone said, "That was a pretty sick exit. I give it a 7.5 for drama. Points deducted for slamming your chair like a WWE wrestler."

Emily peeked under the stall. Nike sneakers. Navy joggers.

Matt.

"Oh my God," she groaned. "What are you doing in the girls' bathroom?"

"Came to check on you."

"This is weird. You're weird."

"Yeah, well, you were about to pass out. That's a little weirder."

She didn't respond.

"You okay?" he asked after a beat.

"No," she said, finally.

Another pause.

"You want me to get someone? Mike?"

"Absolutely not."

Matt laughed softly. "Alright, cool. So we're in full meltdown mode but we're drawing the line at Mike Munroe. Got it."

She chuckled, despite herself.

After a moment, she asked, "Did you think I was… failing?"

"Today? No. Freaking out? Yes. But failing?" He leaned against the counter. "You're Emily Davis. You fail at nothing."

She exhaled. "I didn't understand half the questions. My brain went blank. Like... full-on blackout. I couldn't even remember how to do long division. Do people even use long division anymore?"

Matt smiled. "Not unless you're trying to divide a pizza at a party with no knives."

She went quiet again.

"I just… I felt so dumb, Matt. And I never feel dumb."

"You're not dumb," he said. "You're just… you're human. Shocker."

Back in the present, on the mountain, Emily blinked out of the memory.

Mike walked outside, stretching. "You've been out here for an hour. Planning a mutiny? Or just meditating?"

"Time traveling," she said, sipping her coffee.

He squinted at her. "You good?"

She paused.

"Do you remember that PSAT meltdown I had?" she asked.

Mike raised his eyebrows. "Oh, you mean when you stormed out like you were late for an audition for Legally Blonde 3?"

She rolled her eyes. "Wow, thanks. Nice to know I was a meme in your head."

"No, no—listen. It was iconic," he said, grinning. "You were a legend after that. People were afraid of you for weeks."

"I wasn't trying to be a legend," she said softly. "I was just trying to… breathe."

Mike's grin faltered.

"Honestly?" he said, sitting next to her. "I get it now. Back then, I was too dumb and full of myself to realize how much pressure you put on yourself. You always seemed so… invincible."

"I wasn't," she admitted. "Still not."

Mike looked at her for a long second.

"You ever tell Matt about that?"

Emily laughed. "Matt was there. He was the one who found me in the bathroom."

Mike blinked. "Matt went into the girls' bathroom for you? That's either romantic or deeply illegal."

"Both," she said. "And also, kind of sweet."

They were quiet for a moment.

Emily took a deep breath, then said, "I think I've spent most of my life trying to be the smartest, most in-control person in the room. And when I'm not? I fall apart."

Mike nodded. "Welcome to being human. Population: everyone."

She looked at him. "Did you ever feel like that?"

"All the time," he said. "I just hide it better. Or make a joke. Or… you know, run from it."

Emily nudged him. "Classic Mike."

He smiled. "Classic Em."

Later that day, Matt texted her.

Matt T:
"Random Q: Did we ever actually finish the PSAT? Or did you and I just bail and go get froyo?"

Emily D:
"I think we bailed. You paid. I pretended I wasn't in love with you. We were a mess."

Matt T:
"Speak for yourself. I was extremely composed for a guy hiding in a bathroom stall."

Emily D:
"You're still weird."

Matt T:
"Yeah, but I remembered your favorite froyo topping. That counts for something, right?"

Emily stared at the message, smiling.

Because even if she couldn't always control the future—and definitely not the past—there was something comforting about remembering the moments that made her human.

Even the ones that took place in the most random of places.

Like a public school bathroom.

On PSAT day.

When she forgot the answers but remembered how to breathe.