Letters from Maggie: Installment IV

Dear Cassandra,

I dragged myself in at 1 p.m. today, after what seemed like an infinite night. When you decide to actually use the hours between midnight and 5 a.m., it lends you a whole lot of freedom to do a whole lot of things. Last night, I decided to spend those precious hours at Henry’s place, sitting on his floor, talking about how much we both love Death Cab for Cutie. There was a lot to say, and it just took up the hours like only something so unimportant as love for a band could. Worry not though. I remain in the friend zone for now, having slept right where I sat — on his floor — when we determined that it was too late for me to walk home.
He did give me a blanket, though.
I feel kind of like I’m about to sail right off the edge of a waterfall with this whole thing. It’s not that I like him excessively, though it's also not like I don’t like him. Obviously I like him; I slept on his floor. Maybe it’s Lou, and the feeling that I’m giving up on missing him. It’s become such a critical part of my identity that I just don’t know what I’ll do without it. Or if Henry would even be able to eclipse it, or if he even wants to. I kind of want to feel like I’ve thought about it before I just do it — so I’m clear on what I want, etc. But who is ever clear? I certainly would not want to be held responsible for being clear.
When I finally got around to becoming a person again today, all I wanted was a Good Egg from ABP, but when I went, I realized that it would be wildly incomplete without the addition of a mango smoothie. There’s something just inherently healing about their smoothies — they way they’re creamy and icy at the same time. They just do everything they need to do without any fanfare or expectations from you.
I really needed a smoothie last Tuesday. It seems like everything has been going wrong in economics recently. I stare and stare at the notes and the lecture slides and nothing happens. I’m studying and working really hard and I’m just not seeing any results from it, and there are few things in the world that feel as truly horrible as that.
Sometimes I’m sitting in Gates or in lecture and I think to myself: Do people know what happens to us in here? Do they really, truly know and understand? Surely, there must be some person high up in government or somewhere who is in charge of keeping them in check. The professors, the deans, etc. Someone has to make sure they’re doing things that make sense, that they’re not going to break us. If nobody’s checking, who’s to say that they won’t just do it? Just because they can? Because they can. I don’t trust them. I don’t really think anyone should trust them.
I don’t really trust myself recently, either. More weird things have been happening. Yesterday I stopped at my RA’s door — their name is Bea — because I had a question and when I got close, I could hear music playing inside. It wasn’t loud, but the doors also aren’t thick. I think it was “The Judge” by Twenty One Pilots. Which is a good song.
Anyways, I knocked, and nobody answered. I waited a few minutes; still nothing. I knocked again. I was kind of mad at this point; if they were in there they could have at least answered.
Then I heard a scream and the music stopped.
I shook the door handle and yelled their name and the door opened almost immediately under my hands, throwing me forward. Right into Bea.
I asked them if they were okay, and they seemed really confused. They looked perfectly fine. They told me they’d just been in the bathroom, which is why they hadn’t answered the door. Not wanting to seem unhinged, I moved on, asked them my question, and left. That’s all.