Despite all things said on the journals, Destin - who wasn't really Destin, like Emily wasn't really Emily - had all the game of a blind geek with a magic phone. At least the damn thing seemed like magic, because he knew all the words that flowed across the screen without actually reading a single letter. It wasn't close to normal, but it didn't feel off. It felt - right - and it was one of the few things that did.
Much like it felt right to talk to her - Stephanie - even though his palms felt slightly damp and he was currently staring at his closet - where he knew his closet to be, the phone informed him, as if it held some secret. He reached out, fingers running over shirts that he knew the composition of - 95% cotton, 5% spandex, 50% cotton and 50% polyester, 100% cotton (that one, it felt smoother under his fingertips). The phone told him it was white, but the one two hangers down was dark gray and that seemed to be the better choice if only because it was more forgiving than white. (White being the color that showed lipstick and coffee stains - as the phone also informed him.)
Gray it was.
And dark blue jeans that had probably been ironed (no, said the phone) - if they'd ever been worn (correct) - but it wasn't as though he could check himself in the mirror. (He looked clean and preppy - or so he was informed by the thing chained to his wrist.) The last thing to go on were his sunglasses that he wore around campus, and out he went, no stick in sight, nothing to help him but the steady flow of information from the phone about where to go, who was coming, which corner to go around - don't trip over the passed out fratboy - and to her dorm.
One nervous rub of his palms against his jeans, a deep breath for courage, and he knocked, lightly, all knuckle on manufactured wood.