We hurt and we burn and we bloom, and also wonder off to the side why they seem to have it more figured out than us.
We sit on pillows and cross our legs on the hand-me-down rug around the coffee table. Drinking organic white wine or White Claw , lighting candles to distract from the mismatched posters on the wall.
A narrative lived for a few months goes from exciting to comfortable to consistently more difficult to defend.
If we have the job, we don’t have the boy.
If not the light-filled apartment, then at least the body?
Maybe the family is broken but the money flows freely.
Or the drugs pulse in cool clubs next to flaky friends.
We’ll spend double on a Uber what we ate at dinner, mixing in our new acoustic takes with some 2014 Drake.
We have college campuses that still feel like home and childhood beds we’re embarrassed to fall asleep in so quickly.
We have windowsills filled with candles and plans we’re trying desperately not to kill.
We feel it’s all a fun adulthood dream — just with some dark parks — some “twenties” we’d never and love to live again.
We go to the best parties and get the drunkest off the open bar — we’re the ones that need it most.