The oldest note in your phone is from January 8, 2016. “Masquerade housewarming party where we buy lots of cute masks from Joann’s and decorate them with feathers and hot glue.” Surely, you never would’ve imagined that Joann’s would go bankrupt fewer than ten years later. You were twenty-two, the year you well and truly fell in love, the year you lived with all your best friends in a huge house in the historic district, the year you typed Marge, Shelly, and Glen with no heading and now can’t remember why—houseplant names? Fellow patrons from an unexpected night out at The Tin Can? Things were good for a while when you first fell in love—lists of apartment buildings you toured together, restaurants from your trip to Chicago, French baby names. The subtle hints at your unhappiness appeared slowly, tucked between grocery lists and now-mysterious strings of numbers. In 2019 you wrote “I forget. I always forget. In the morning with the bright and bustling caffeine-fueled air, I forget how it feels.” You wonder if you were really that dramatic or just drunk. You think you’re better now, scrolling past book recs, flight numbers, that one kombucha recipe, but then you see it from just last month: “It never feels the same in the bright, scrubbed-clean morning light, but at 4 am when everything is spinning, spinning, spinning, I could explode from the confusion of being so small and carrying so much through this fleeting little life,” and it turns out you are, in fact, that dramatic.