there’s something honestly strange about realizing this is my last summer before eighteen. before everything starts getting labeled “real” on paper. everyone talks about growing up like it’s one straight line — college, career, apartments, debt, burnout dressed up as ambition. like life only matters when it’s constantly moving, producing, achieving. but i’m not living for that. i’m not like the girls dating around, chasing noise, filling every weekend just to say they’re busy