Feeling lonely, contemplating being even more lonely this summer when my person is gone. My childhood bedroom does this to me with. out. fail. I spent much of this morning and yesterday going through notebooks from my storied (apparently, given their size and number) youth. And by going through I mean glancing at and putting down like they burned me. I'm getting better at seeing the pictures of me from times I was embarrassed by them, but reading the things I wrote in middle and high school still hurts. Or would, I imagine, if I could do it.

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