The surprise party we planned for Sarah at the old warehouse downtown. You almost spoiled it by showing up two hours early. Everyone hid in the kitchen while you pretended to leave, then jumped out when she walked in. The cake was slightly burnt on the bottom but she cried anyway.

The car broke down on the way to Big Sur. Four hours waiting for a tow truck in the pouring rain. But then the sun came out and we made it to the beach by sunset. We still talk about that night— the bonfire, the stories, the way everyone was glad the day almost didn't happen.

You were on a plane back to your parents' house when you got the text. "We need to talk when you get home." That's all it said. Four hours of flying with no WiFi. Four hours of imagining every terrible thing. When you landed, there were 12 missed calls from your mother. Your father had been having an affair for three years. Your parents were getting divorced. Christmas dinner was silent. You ate alone in your childhood bedroom. You didn't cry until you got back to your apartment three days later.