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the man on the internet said I needed to grieve for the girl who grew up without love. without real love. My parents loved me, love me, in their own way. But if I want to get better, this can’t be about them.

I guess breaking the cycle has to start here. I have to decide I want something more than what my mother settled for. I have to choose to want more for myself. To understand a greater cross section of the world and everything it has to offer. I’ve already chosen to be selfish. I’ve already chosen to live. This is choosing to love.

I want to let myself let myself want you and be wanted by you. I want to let myself fall into this moment, and every moment, naturally, without pretence, without reservation.

And maybe the signals are subconsciously pointing towards something else, unrelated. But there’s no way to know that yet. There’s no point trying to guess, that’s how we left everything before. There’s only trying, trying, and failing, and trying again.

I know how to be a friend. I know how to be a best friend. Not to toot my own trumpet, but I think I’ve got good friend down pretty well. Except you don’t want to be my friend. You didn’t feel the need to start at friends, the way I’d always imagined someone would. Some would hate this, but this is my healing. You chose my for something more than my friendship. The thing I thought I’d always have to offer someone, before they ever saw me as more.

You like me, you smile at me. That sappy little smile which makes me start every time. You wonder why I’m always asking ‘what?’. It’s because my brain can’t compute why someone would ever look at me like that. I’ve never felt attractive like that before. I’m asking ‘what’ because the neurones in my brain are firing against a blank wall trying to decode an emotionally available, emotionally interested, emotionally invested person. We’ve got no empirical data, we’re struggling to intellectualise this riddle.

So this is me leaning into the novelty. I’m gathering new data in real time. I’ve never done this before, I’ve said as much only a thousand times. I guess this is learning in your 20s. I guess this is growing up when you’re already grown.

What a trip, to start to feel like you’re finally starting to have the answers, to see the patterns, only to find new lessons, brand new experiences. How wonderful.

satisfied. are you? I’ve exhausted myself repeating that I don’t know what I’m doing. It’s starting to taste stale in my mouth. Not in a bitter way, just in overindulgent one. Like I’ve taken my respite due, and now I need to pick up my tools and work it out. I’ve had my time for tantrum. I’ve screamed enough now.

And I’m not even sad. I’m just scared. I’m just doing something I’ve never done before, and I thought I’d have choreographed enough to waltz into this moment unnoticed. But my heart gave me away. She’s tender and raw and like a child.

I feel like I didn’t finish explaining my zip wire metaphor. The thing is, I love adrenaline. I was, I am, an adrenaline junkie. I’m just also a coward. So I ran at you hard, and fast, and only now that you’re looking back at me, have I stopped to catch my breath and see how far I’ve travelled. It’s unfamiliar terrain. But I want to be here. I ran to be here. They would’ve held me back, they would’ve said take your time, learn some moves first. But I couldn’t wait.

I have to be honest with myself though, I’ve always worried I was only ever in it for the chase. That I never really wanted any of them. That I just wanted to be wanted. To know it was even possible to be.

But the thing is, if you left I know it would hurt. And I want to give it everything I have. Didn’t I say, if I loved someone they wouldn’t need telling? I’ve vowed and vowed over and over again, to not hurt anyone the way I’ve been hurt. Can I just be present with you? Can I just find out that one day, you’re so important to me. But in a familiar, gentle, ever present kind of way. Like the rhythm of breath. Or the hum of an engine. Always there, always running, even when you’ve forgotten to check.

Why are you making me nervous then? This is the way I've worked it all out before, hope it doesn't fail me now. See the crazy thing is, this is all I've ever wanted. This is like my wildest fantasies, come true. I couldn't have envisioned the a better story than this.

Except maybe I could have. Except maybe every story I've ever imagined had something we don't. My confidence. My self-assuredness. My knowing exactly what it was I wanted. I might've been doubtful of people, of situations, but never in my desire for it. In my head, I always wanted it. I could never imagine not wanting it.

So, why do you make me nervous? Why do you make me worried? Is it all happening too fast? Have I moved too quickly? Are there subconscious signals my body is making that I've been ignoring, dumbfounded why, after all this time, I'd ever want to hesitate? I've been paralysed all these years, and it's like someone has stunned all my nerves, awoken muscles I didn't know I had, and thrown me into a marathon. And I've been running as if nothing radical has occurred. Like I'm an imposter in this race, and I'm keeping pace, but only because I've left no time to dwell on my start. More than lightening, life-changing.

The truth is, there's so much trauma to unpack. But the self-loathing, the utter disbelief in my own attractiveness, it's invasive. It's like, this was all happening for fun, and I could enjoy it in it's ridiculousness, like every fun situation that came before. But then suddenly, it became real. More real than I could've ever dreamed. Suddenly you're saying things to me, I'd have never made them say in my head. Things I'd never hoped someone might believe. In reality.

I think, my own self doubt, my own self deprecation, is numbing me to embracing this relationship you're trying to build with me. It's so incredibly normal, you're so well-adjusted. And yes maybe, for any first-timer, it's a little quick. It'll always be a little overwhelming, your first time falling. But I'd be foolish to dismiss the power of my own unhealthy psyche.

How to believe in your own attractiveness? I'd imagined that once someone treated me like I was, that would be all I needed. But it's obvious now, it could never be that simple. The belief runs too deep. The pain, the hurt, of being overlooked, being smart, never pretty, funny, never hot, a good friend, never a prospect. The big lie of my teenhood, that I didn't care for desire. All I ever wanted was to be desired. To be wanted.

No wonder you make me anxious, nervous, worried. I feel sick because I'm scared. Like you would standing on the edge of zipwire, scared to jump. Knowing it's what you want to do, knowing you'll enjoy every second of the adrenaline rush as you fly through the air, knowing there'll be someone at the end to stunt your speed and catch you. But you still have to step off the edge. You can know everything, but you won't step off until you really believe it.

I've been saying that the thing that's holding me back is I don't really know you well enough. We're friends, but we're not best friends. I know that we could be. But all things take time.

But it's got to be more than that. I can see that now. However much I know you, love you, I've still got to overcome this aversion I have to accepting love.

Do I tell you how broken I am? Is that your burden to bear? Would it scare you away? You're having fun right now, you like kissing me. It's incredulous to me. I don't want to burden you. I don't want to ruin this fun thing. But I think this is going to take me some time. I want to do it though. I want to get better. I want to believe I'm beautiful.

I feel like we’ve skipped a step. Or we had a step but we only lingered for a moment. And I know this is just the way these things go. I don’t think, all things considered, 10 months is all that sudden. But for me, for the untested, the uninitiated, it’s all happening so fast, so sudden, and then so nothing at all.

I always dreamt of falling in love with a friend, a best friend. We’re not best friends. I’m trying to let go of my preconceptions, my dreams from childhood. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve lost something.

I think I knew it, subconsciously, the day I came back from our talk. I was grieving, Carolina said. I didn’t see it at the time, but it marked a shift, a change. Too much to just be friends now. Too much to be plausibly deniable. Too much. You’re too much; that’s what it sounded like to my childish mind. Even when you said nothing of the sort. I was a sad happy, the worst kind.

I miss you. I miss the person I could sit on a bench with. The person I could come annoy with silly questions. The person who I could have individual conversations with at lunch. It’ll all look too obvious now. Am I not allowed to be friends with you anymore? How do people cope, losing a friend to the entity of everything that is more?

You’re surprised by me. I’m surprised by me. Even though I’m not. You’re getting the product of 16 years of unexpressed desire, unfulfilled wanting, the reciprocation has unearthed a landslide. I’ve become the person I always was, but she looks unrecognisable to the person I was playing. Because no one wanted to cast me before.

I’m a young adult playing a teenage game. I’m naïve, I’m silly - is it endearing? Is it too much?

I lied a little. It ate me up a little. Should I let you know? I would’ve told her. But she was my best friend, there was nothing she didn’t know.

I wanted you to ask to kiss me. I wrote it down a while ago. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks. I already know it’s a memory I’m going to hold dear, close, in my heart, for the rest of my life. Standing in the rain on the corner of the street, against the brick wall. Only the sounds of drunk students interjecting our time spent waiting for my next night bus home.

But now I’m worried. Did I kiss you too soon? Did we draw more and more lines on this more than friends picture we’re making? How much more before I don’t get to be friends with you anymore? When is the cut off, there’s so much more I wanted to know. So much more I wanted to tell.

I’d sit next to her in class, so we could spend every moment of paired discussion dissecting our lives to each other, pausing only to establish a party line in case we were called on to answer. I learnt her inside out. It never occurred to me to wonder if I wanted to ask her to kiss me. I was a child, not a teenager. Maybe this is just the way growing up goes?

It’s funny, of all the things to conform to, it would be don’t kiss and tell. It feel like the start of everything, the way I’m keeping it to myself for now. I’m scared of warping it, misunderstanding it, through other people’s eyes. Except then, it was because I couldn’t see if you were true. This time, it’s my own point of view I’m still working out. How do I really feel about all this? Will I ever know? Or will it always feel a little like this? Is this first infatuation? Is this first reciprocation? I guess so. I don’t think any of them know, I’ve watched them all these years, make fools of themselves time and time again. And yet all the while, sat desperately wishing to still be in their shoes.

I guess, then, I’m living the dream and also the reality. This just is the way it goes. Oh look, like clockwork, here you are.

i think i could leave if i wanted to, nothing broken, nothing made. no regrets except for everything at all. I could leave before it gets dark and difficult and hurts to breathe when I speak. I could self sabotage a situation I’ve seen before, run before it blights me with a thousand scars I’ll still be finding years from now. A brother, a friend, a companion, a lover, a colleague, a soulmate, a stranger, an end?

Can I squeeze myself into your life, the way I infiltrated, forced my way into hers? I told you I hated making friends; that was a lie. In truth, I hate the prospect of making no good friends. The crippling dread of walking into a new space, and finding no one up to par, no one worth spending my days with. No one to compare to those who filled my life before. I hate the thought of living a half full life, because I’ve tasted real friendship already. I can’t stomach the cheap stuff anymore.

I held a heavier ego yesterday; the size of which I’ve not felt in years. It’s like you awakened a part of myself I thought I’d crushed, deflated; died. I felt stupid, untested and confident like fourteen again. Projecting a self of myself I could only find in memories, I’d decided must’ve been a dream. The logical idealist, the naïve old-soul, the child in adult’s clothing.

You make me feel like Carolina’s best friend again. I was convinced she’s died. But here she is, having twenty-seven half finished conversations, bumbling through sunny days, unsure whether you know I’m here because I’ve never been so sure of anything else. Except you’re not eleven, and neither am I.

Growing up obsessed with being the original, the first. Deep down knowing it came from the fear that without that badge, I may fail to ever be notable at all. Being new and better is unpredictable, is unstable, unreliable. Being here first, they can never take that away from you. Even if you unearn the right, even if you travel so far it’s almost as if you never met, we’ll still share an original wound.

You’ve got scars already, more than me. You’ve been making your own dinner for years now. How do you make friends with people you’re a little bit in love with nowadays? You can’t just force yourself into group Geography projects. You can’t invite yourself to Chinese new year trips to London. You definitely can’t sit on your bedroom floor, and ask, hearts clutched in ipods and brick phones, ‘please love me, please please please please love me, I’ll never leave you I promise, just say you’ll never leave me, say you love me, say you’ll love me always and forevermore’.

I can’t because I know better now, at least on the last point. I didn’t love her forever more, and she did leave me, at least for a moment there. We are coming back to each other, but we know better now. The years have roughened our skin, I see now, you can’t force people to never leave. Forced instead to blindly trust, the elation, the pleasure, the joy of knowing you, it’s worth every possible awful thing you could ever do to me. The risk is exponentially growing, bigger than my teenage heart could hope to perceive. But it’s the only risk worth anything at all.

[26th May 2025 19:57]

reading richard silken and realising this might just be the life I was dreaming about. The one where I get to stumble around, unsure which way to go, unsure what to say, but now I get to make all the rules. It was a blessing, treading the dictated lines. This restless, uncertain energy, that's just a life that's now my own.

And it's less than perfect. She knew deep down it would be. Still, there's something disappointing in being just as clueless at 22 as I was at 13. Except I know that's also untrue. I am a thousand times changed from my teenage self. I am wiser still, despite feeling just as stuck, inert, behind my peers. I am filled with old trauma that won't leave me. I am frustrated with myself and these self-made patterns I keep falling into. I am angry at the world, at fate, that she won't finally deal me a new hand. I am so full of yearning. When does this cup become too full?

They're a precipice I know already. They're a bad idea to take seriously, a fun time to keep around, a dangerous game to play with my fickle mind. But I've seen these signs before, I'll protect myself this time. I'll save my own skin. I'll find another guide if you leave, I'll be okay. I won't tie myself to you, like I tied myself to her, or even to him, or to any of the others. I know better now.

Does that leave me alone? Does that leave me a single self, fending for my own life? Spent forever fighting to be more than extension of another self, now I hold my own happiness in my hands, and I've never felt this responsible. I am the bearer of my own freedom, still holding herself within old confines. Because they might still come to claim what they once had? Or because there's comfort in the familiar, even if it's painful? Restrictive? Because I wanted all this freedom, and now it's here, I don't really know what I wanted to do with it all. The plans never really went this far.

The plans were hypothetical. The plans were riddled with the castings of trauma, an addiction to the sickness, an inability to envision a life not defined by some type of suffering. If I was happy, it was as someone else entirely. An enhanced version of myself I wouldn't recognise if I passed her in the street. I could entertain myself with unfathomable situations in the movies in my head.

And now I own the narrative, I'm just the scared little girl dreaming of something to save her from the monsters in her head, her house. Vocalised it to a friend before I knew it to be true; a part of me will always be scared to give myself up to a man, to love in the way I've always dreamt of loving. Maybe the trauma left an unrealistic image of romantic love. I made it up, I dreamt it up. I'm sat, desperately yearning to get to try it out. Does no one want to love me, be loved by me? Or have I brought a gun to a knife fight? Does no one know how much I wish to love? Did I get it all wrong, inside my head?

Too obsessed with being perceived; too scared of being perceived. Too at home with self-flagellation, too dependent on the sense of perfection. Too prideful and too shameful. Everyone I've ever loved has failed to love me fully. Everyone I've ever loved has consumed me into a shell of a being, until the push away, the drowner's instinct, the childhood sword. Trust me, I think I meant to die. Loving is ugly, to love and lose, is to know beautiful things can die, and hopelessness abounds.

But what is the alternative, if not hopeless?

So how to make it over the hill? Finally finding freedom only to find he's here too. Forever to love the many over the few, or to love those who love many over few. What is this inheritance? Am I reading into regular life? When will it happen to me? I want to believe I don't need it. That I'm actually content. But I'm an attention seeker, defined in company, I can't go on alone like this for very long.

What a tragedy this is. I wanted to talk to you. It's okay that you're busy. I talked to them, I think maybe I talked too much. I met so many people today. I can't be sure I made many good impressions. I can't be sure of much. They confuse me, I confuse myself. I don't understand my own actions. I am playing a dangerous game I didn't enter. I'd like to die now, please. Quick, before I do something embarrassing I can't come back from.

I want to find the words to make it all make sense. But they don't seem to come. At the paper, at the keyboard, at the keys. I couldn't write during the others either. I couldn't really make head or tail of it all until it was far behind in the rear-view mirror, and the wood from the trees all looks alike.

My brain doesn't even feel medicated. Oh god, I can't stop reliving my own words. I'm embarrassed by everything. I know the problems. I can't seem to fix them yet.

Dream, dream, I'm trying. Baby girl, I'm out here trying for you. I don't know how to do this. Can you send any help?

I killed the conversation on purpose. I just couldn’t live with the thought that I was getting my hopes up, even without trying to. I couldn’t stomach the reality that everything I feared was true. That this would be one of those repeating patterns again. Where I crush myself over into the smallest possible shape, and it takes months to years to ever open up again. And everything we could be is irrevocably changed. I ruined it before it started. Or I felt myself starting to. So I just wanted to kill it off before it becomes that powerful. Just wanted to let you know. Didn’t want you to misunderstand.

Part of me still wants to inexplicably talk to you. There’s no reason why I should. I can’t explain it away. But here I am not just wanting to take the risks, but also lacking the fear that usually accompanies them. It’s silly really. Just two weeks ago, you were no one to me. Now you’re a vision I used to come down from a panic attack. You have no right to be this important to me. All you ever did was maybe suggest we get a drink. I don’t even know now what you could’ve possibly meant.

This has happened before. I would wait and wait and wait for just one more sign. Just so I wouldn’t embarrass myself unnecessarily. But eventually I’d grow impatient, waiting for something that wasn’t coming back. Forced to spend the next year grieving actions I never took, wondering where exactly I let it all fall down. And he was a good for nothing man. And some part of me will always be a little bit angry with him. But at the end of the day, he didn’t choose me. And that was his prerogative.

I don’t want to find out you didn’t mean anything. I’m already worried I ruined it a little bit. I was very cool before I wondered, wasn’t I? I’ll try to be her again. See where that takes us.

So I killed the conversation for now. Please, please restart it. I’d love to talk to you. I love to talk to you.

another person I'm happier I'm getting to know better

I'll pretend you didn't touch me in a way that made me start a little, a few times now. But only because I'm so embarrassed to be wrong again. Only because I've gone mad for only a few days now, and it's already unbearable. It's already left me vacant and void when you're not here, even though I was never meant to see you. Even though I was the one who was busy. You look too sane to be signalling now. But if I want to run away from my traitorous mind, I'd have to leave your words hung from the bannister unsaid. Like I had to leave his languid leaving, kissing knees, wine drunk goodwill, undone. I think it would hurt more to be undone by you. You're much cooler than him, he lowered my opinion of men underground. You're everything I've never had. You're a thought I had until I thought you were a thought I wasn't allowed to have. And know, there's no real way to know, is there? Not unless you told me. It's only been a week, please please pretty please could you tell me now. I don't want to be the fool again.

And they're right. I'm so preoccupied with being right, with being liked. I haven't taken much time to wonder if you're even one to choose. All of a nights dream was all it took - to imagine what it could be like to hang out with you. But is it like that when we hang out? Before I had these wandering ideas, it was all too easy. I'll copy and paste occurrences from then, and I think they look unmistakable in the sunlight, pure, untampered, genuine. But in this light, I can't help but wonder. You can only fall like a fool so many times. At least that's what I want to think.

My mind's moved too fast. I think this would make an epic slow burn narrative. But the days just won't move fast enough for my desires to love and be loved. It's the only lullaby I can use to fall asleep. And now it just keeps me awake. It was easier when I had no self-respect. It's harder now I'm trying to bleed on the cold, hard, earth. If I get to hang out with you again, will you leave any more low hanging words? Will you let me catch them? Will I even let you speak, or just start jumping for your mouth, manipulate the speech, the sounds?

I'm scared I don't know what I want. I'm scared I won't get to know now I've wandered down this path. I'm scared you're just another affable personality who likes to brush up against friends. Leech your body heat into mine, platonically. Touch me lightly, gently. Whisper the idea of affection, and the plausible deniability of everything else. Let me run amuck in this half designed landscape, half designed because you were never part of the designing committee anyway. Are you another one of those?

I have to say, I really do hate the touchy-feely brigade. They've left me a fool just so many times. And it never ends. It's just me and my calloused hands, burning with the weight of holding onto nothing. I'd rather let you go now.

I know only I can decide. Are you a friend or a foe or a something else. I just wanted to decide later. I just don't want to ruin it again. I just want to not lose another friend.

It's only been a week. I should give it more time. But oh how I wish you'd just show up again tomorrow and answer some questions. Oh, I'd love to see you. I've hyped you up in my head. But can you be regular to me again? Physically there, regularly apparent. Another person I'm happier I'm getting to know better.

The truth is friends can’t lie,

They tell you sweet truths in the dance of platonic romance

You build that bridge out of the bricks of future come to pass

You watch your ship sink under bridges you once stood

Holding hands holding onto whatever works

Until it doesn’t.

Your friends tell you who they are

In whispered barely suppressed confession

The bubbling urge to lay bare

You know your friends naked

You learn the parts of themselves that scare them, because they tell you

Because you have nothing to gain

And everything to lose

Friends will tell you how they hurt

And you’ll hold their hands and soothe their truth

With real, false platitude

And it’s not charged, it’s free at the point of touch

It’s the freedom to love selfishly, selflessly

A more passionate romance never mattered anyway

Your friends will find it easier

To avert their gaze, look away, pretend they didn’t say

They have palm callouses from swords wielded between the second and third rib

But you’ll remember them the moment before they release your hand

The drowning breathe water knowingly

Because friends cannot lie

My friends and I have held flesh to flesh embrace,

My friends loved me truthfully, expansively, built me up to more than I’d ever hoped to be before I met them.

omg it’s the leap years theory again

silly second years

dangling cigarettes from dangling lips from dangling trees of secrets kept

teetering on windowsills on pinnacles, wandering eyes uncertain sighs make perfect lies

make up smeared across the face of dreams unmade. Make you make up make plans make mad make me make you made up perfect now

clusterfuck cucked cliques, cliché

aided, admonished, atrophied.

Framed in 1k. picture perfect day.

don’t debate friendship with me. don’t start the edging my voice; bolted, undead, lame. you put me down. green with unnurtured naivety, with envy

I’ll apologise to your girlfriend. She’s my friend so I can lie to her. Fuck her and her princess castle. Ride away on your fucking horse you bastard.

something about train journeys and writing

suddenly nostalgic for times past, a deep set sadness for how in pain she was, how unsure she was, how stressed, how scared

she shouldn’t have had to go through that. I’m here now, but I can’t help wish she could’ve found it all easier, found it all happier.

Not that I wasn’t happy, when things were good, they felt amazing. But when things were bad, it was lonely. I remember she felt so lonely at the end.

And it’s not that it wasn’t fun. I’m almost doing it for fun now. I think it’s the sadness of feeling like I did it wrong. The best three years of life and I just don’t know if I did it right. I think I spent so long feeling like I wasn’t good enough. I spent so long struggling. I wish I could’ve done it all better than I did.

Alas, it’s over now. It’s gone can’t catch it. Maybe one day I’ll still get to prove them wrong. Maybe one day I’ll stop feeling like I need to.

Maybe one day. Anyway this is 23 in the making.

thinking about how they pillaged the queer community, scared of interesting, forcing normal, regular, boring, because they were so scared of different.

how they made regular folk turn on each other in a unwinnable quest to be deemed most ‘of the like’. most un-queer.

and how deviants were forced to lie and liars forced to deviate. just to live. in any meaningful way damned, just any way possible.

And I thought it couldn’t be copied. It’s a different kind of hate. Except it isn’t. They still accuse without conviction. Turn corners expecting liars, expecting deception.

They’re so scared of themselves. they’re so scared who’d they’d be if given another choice. They’re so scared that what makes us different makes them different too.

Can’t they see they’re stuck in a paradox? If our difference threatens their normality, maybe, simply, we are just the same. Like we were before you ever learnt to fear us. When life had meaning.

They’re not scared of men. They’re not scared of women either.

Who are you really scared of?

i remember the first time I threw a knife

without ever knowing I was gripping a hilt

I remember realising I was watching her realising there was only one thing worse than our inane pretentious obsession with the philosophy tutor

never hearing about it at all.

She said she didn’t realise they didn’t know I wrote songs. I have to be honest, until she said it I hadn’t really realised it at all. Perhaps because I write less than I did. It’s no longer my only emotional clutch. I grew up and out of the grinding gears that was 15.

But she was pleasantly surprised. I’m glad she was happy. She deserves to know that they aren’t friends like we were friends. I can’t sing my diary to them. I don’t trust them as unscrawled, unedited, unbecoming, as I understood my life with you. I loved you like I may never love a friend again. You deserve to know that.

The dates are aligning out of pocket. Time condenses like an accordion, playing harmonies in places I wasn’t expecting.

It’s frustrating losing arguments in hindsight. But a producer not a performer be, I guess. That’s the more honourable way to do it.

We hold our democrats to higher standards than our facists. I wonder why that is?

You don’t understand, you kill me. You only serve as a reminder of what I lost. It was never really real. But it was real in my head. And you killed it. Both of you, together. And selfishly or not I picked a side, because I can only ever survive half of you now. If you knew the whole of it I think you’d agree. Perhaps selfishly. I don’t mean to hurt you, I definitely don’t mean to hate you. But I can’t apologise for how it comes across. This is the best I can do. You’ll just have to learn to live with that I guess.

off to make myself the person I wish

maybe there’s a lesson at the end of the song, maybe we’ll look back on summer ‘24 and know we were going somewhere we couldn’t see yet. maybe this was the point all along. maybe I’ll take a paddle board and sulk and you’ll feel bad for a second and it’ll cancel out the months I felt tortured by you. maybe I’ll be on a train irritated by people who wouldn’t help like I might’ve done. maybe I’ll know deep down that it’s not a big deal really. Maybe I’ll buy a better shampoo. maybe gracie’s album will get better when I can hear it with both ears. maybe I’ll look back and be happy. maybe I’m not even sad right now. Maybe there’s a whole summer open to opportunity and exploration and I won’t need to live at home and it won’t feel like losing. It’ll feel like rory gilmore going on tour with barack obama in ‘09. maybe I’ll cry at the farewell party except it’s not like the series is ending for me. I get to continue living.

I just think that it’s all going to be fine. It’s all going to work out. And I’ll remember sitting on the sunny side of the train to Ipswich, and I’ll remember.

The ending is far off yet. S8 here we go…

if not this, what then, was it all for?

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