It’s a universally known fact that you should never finish your work the night before it is due because parlous and grave things happened when all you did was pine for sleep.  Well, technically, it wasn’t my fault my house was so outrageously well-equipped or that my parents were such busy bodies. Or that certain people had to have two printers in one apartment with three bedrooms. Ok fine. The last one was on me. But still. 

I was just seated, a nice, hot mug of hot chocolate with five marshmallows, just how I liked it, and my favourite quilt wrapped around my body while I typed with my frozen fingers. I couldn’t feel the soft, smooth texture of the keys that I absolutely adored to type with, because my hands had numbed, the gelid wind biting stingingly at my face. My dad had insisted we leave the window open because ‘natural air conditioning like this didn’t happen every day’. His words. Not mine. I was finishing up the report that was due the next day, at the ungodly hour of ten pm. Maybe not that late. Although, late for me because I needed my beauty sleep. Which meant that my lazy, sixteen year old ass had a bedtime of 8:30 pm. Which also meant, I had no social life whatsoever, and that my friend circle could practically be narrowed down to zero. It’s not like I was solitary and forlorn. Mariam, the fashion figurehead who dominated social media was my best friend- we were tied at the hip, so much so that she posted pictures of her and me sharing fro-yo all over her account. Yeah no, even I don’t believe that. That was me being completely delusional. Mariam was all that, but definitely not my best friend. It wasn’t an entire lie though because she did post pictures of me. Pictures of me sprawled over our school floor, pictures of me hiding behind a stack of books, pictures of me in… Well, you get the idea. My real best friend was Cassie. Cassandra but she didn’t want to be named after an author. Something about her fabled, notorious reputation being destroyed. I finally finished my report, saving the document. I killed time for a while by looking at my other document. A love letter. Not like I would ever send it. But it was there. Typed by Yours Truly. Addressed to the one guy I’ve had a crush on my entire life. The letter held everything my love emotion could possibly cater to, every single all consuming thought that bubbled in the maze of my brain. The length ran through the entire document, the words danced in front of me. I stifled a yawn only for another one to erupt. I closed the flap of my computer, not-so-gently, and headed to brush my teeth. After that, I switched on my computer again to print the document. I did that drowsily, in a daze, because my eyesight was blurring and eyelids were starting to feel like lead. Eye-lead. I printed the document, and rushed to go to bed. I fell into a deep sleep with the slow humming noise of the computer printing my report. 

“Loren!” I woke up to the sound of my sister yelling. “What?” I grumbled back. “Loren is in looove!” She sing-songed. “What the hell are you on about?” I mumbled into my pillow, groaning. My sister jumped on the bed next to me, making me flounce up and down. “The love letter I mailed to the address.” She said, shrugging nonchalantly, sidling up next to me. I sat up faster than a knee jerk reaction, widening my already widened eyes. “What?” I roared. “There was a print in mom and dad’s room that said, Dear Asher, with an address on top. I mailed that. Mom saw it as well,” she explained, as though I were a child. The thing about my sister, Flora, was that she thought she was so much more than her own age. Which was eleven, just so you know.

“Ugh.” I groaned. Internally I was seething and scratching my head in unmitigated maelstrom. How could this have happened? I mean, I did everything right. I typed out my essay and then printed it. How…? “Was there any other print out?” I asked Flora, hoping that for once her useless sack of flesh would be useful. “Loren is in loove! Dear Asher, if you’re reading this you should know I love you. I always have and probably always will. Even if I get married, a part of my heart will always be yours.” Flora screeched.

“Shut up! Keep it down will you?” I put a hand on her mouth. I needed to think. This can’t be happening. She mailed it to him for goodness sake. How do I reverse that? I decided the best thing to do would be to open my essay. I ran to pick up my computer and switched it on. Hastily, I typed ‘Google docs’ on Google and scanned my last seen documents. I understood then. “Ugh! No!” I thought I would die out of sheer embarrassment. Maybe, I can just not show my face to the rest of the world. That would be good. Yes. Incredible idea. Good going Loren. It was frustrating. Google docs always put the last viewed document in the front, and the haps of last night. That’s right. I had viewed the love letter last. Even if it was just for a handful of seconds, nothing much of importance, the letter had shifted to the front. I must have printed that. But it still didn’t explain why it got printed from the printer in my parents room. Just to check, I clicked on the print option. Right. It suggested the printer closest to wherever the print command was being sent from. And naturally, I was right next to my parents bedroom. How convenient. I hated the printers right then. I hated technology. Because of technology I would have to hide away at home for the rest of my life. I groused loudly, burying my face in my hands. I had no desire to type out my next essay. I would just do it by hand. No need for computers or printers because they ruined my life. “Loren?” I froze. My mother entered the room, her hands on her hips. “Did you write a love letter?” She asked, her perfectly sculpted eyebrows articulated the question. “No.” I half-lied. I had typed it. But she didn’t ask me that.