The mattress was already in the hallway when I decided to leave on a Thursday morning, which technically made me not the asshole because at least I wasn't the one who put it there. That honor belonged to Eugene, my landlord.

I hate this bathroom mirror. It’s too small, and the light in here always makes my skin look weird. My hair is doing that thing again where it can’t decide if it wants to be curly or just frizzy. Honestly, what’s even the point of trying to fix it?

I wasn’t looking for a book to ruin me, but Sally Rooney’s novel did exactly that. There was something uncanny about how much it understood me—or maybe how much it refused to comfort me.