Telling someone you’re a pastor’s kid is never easy. Following the statement, there’s often a lull in the conversation, occasionally followed by the comment, “I thought pastors didn’t have kids” (that would be Catholic priests, they’re different). And from there, it’s even harder to explain your own complicated relationship with religion.

I grew up completely enshrined in the church. The house I called home for the first 12 years of my life was only a block away from the church my dad had pastored; the house I now call home is less than 300 feet away from the church. As a kid, I spent more hours at church than I could count, and attended so many funerals in my childhood that I named all the fish in the town funeral home’s aquarium. I went to church camp and did Bible quizzing. I was pushed to be the model pastor’s child–full of grace and faith–always ready to lend a helping hand to anyone at the drop of a hat. I followed everything blindly, taking every word as law. 

Until one day, I stopped. 

I began the questioning in my teenage years. I wasn’t so blindly willing to follow everything. I was no longer willing to accept that someone loving who they loved was wrong, or that the migrant and the refugee weren’t exactly who we were meant to care for. Slowly but surely, my eyes were opened to the wider world, and to the pain that so many in the church were inflicting. I wasn’t seeing the God I had been raised with and had come to believe in and connect with. The God I had been raised with was meant to be full of love, hope, and reckless abandon. During my years of the most intense questioning, I was still asked to put on a happy face, to be the idealized girl my parent’s church congregation still wanted me to be. I was asked to tamp my opinions down, to keep politics outside, even as I felt these ideals encroaching on my life and my body. 

All of this would culminate in my parent's church no longer being a place I could so easily call home, but rather, a place where I was uncomfortably squeezed into a version of myself that now feels much too small. And this isn’t to say that I’ve left my faith behind, or that my relationship with my parents is broken (they’re some of my favorite people in the world), but rather it is to say that my faith looks different than I ever imagined. That I am so much different than I ever imagined. In high school, I began attending a different church with some of my friends, one where the pastors proudly marched in Pride, where I saw the refugee and the outcast being seen, valued, and cared for. It was here that I realized the church wasn’t just a building. It wasn’t just the things that had harmed or disillusioned me. There was still goodness. There was still love.

Now, my church isn’t confined to four walls and a steeple. It’s people in community action, it’s the actual real and true embodiment of loving your neighbor–every neighbor. It’s the synthesis of so many faiths, the urge to learn and grow and do better. It’s an attempt to embody all of the messages I was taught, against so many of the harmful systems that the church has continued to uphold. When people ask me about my faith now, I always say it’s complicated. There’s no easy way to explain it, no short sentence that encapsulates everything that’s changed for me and everything I continue to hold close. But if I were to try I would say this, my faith is so vastly different from what I ever imagined it would be, but at the core of it remains a steadfast belief in enduring love and a God that values the lesser and the least of these. Faith is a hard thing. It’s deeply personal. To have questions and to discover things for yourself is painful and confusing, but also rewarding. This is not meant to be some pro or anti-religion piece, but rather to say that it's okay to explore, okay to be different, and it’s okay to follow your heart, wherever that may lead you. Maybe, in that exploration, you find something even truer than before.

Written by Lauren Deaton

Edited by Kaitie Sadowski and Julia Brummell

The woman you meet in the Dream Realm is certainly not the woman you are on Earth; delirium is an old friend I never see while I am awake, and lately, I am awake but never dreaming. In my adolescence, I foresaw a shadow cast by the moon’s sinister smile, and I cupped it in my palms to extrapolate a fire of all-encompassing clarity; but must the woman find clarity when womanhood is deemed a certain kind of madness? 

When I was young, not yet surpassing the years of my boyhood, I read stories that struck the lilies in my mind with bluely peculiar hues; the most dangerous implication was that these lilies grew. Their petals did not cease to grace the barriers of my cerebrum — and I knew the moon would keep smiling down on me — and by the last violent August, I realized that my servitude was for all realms of the spiritual plane. If you waited for the right time of the night (and you were fast asleep), you could see a fountain where the nightjars mingle and whisper secrets about God. To discover these proverbs, I knew I needed to pass the threshold that rejects magic as a supernatural condition. I was in desperate need of a Wonderland. 

As my adolescence preceded me, I examined my soul as a product of the garden I nurtured here on Earth. The mind is certainly a curious product of God because inside of it you cannot distinguish the difference between Eden and Wonderland. I understand that in Eden when you cry you do not make a sea of tears, and the remedy for these tears is not to race away from the lagoon that is your heart. By Earth’s law, sensitivity grounds you in the roots that birthed you. In dreams, you can reach the heavens. 

The strangest revelation in Wonderland was found when I peeked through the garden hedges, I heard no song of a nightjar. A sight I remembered, however, was the etching of words on a stone wall: MADNESS IS A CONDITION OF YOUR WOMAN. Considering the time of night, I assumed I might have misread the message on the stone wall. Instead of rubbing my eyes from the muck of exhaustion, I gazed up at the moon again — which only grinned at me tonight. Usually, I am confident in the ability of the moon to provide me with a solace that can only be felt by the motions of my occasional Earthly devotions, but in this world, the sensation of this consolation does not protect the Soul from the truth of the Earth’s cruel dictations. Even in Wonderland, you are approached with the truth that you cannot reach on Earth, and this makes me question if I have truly reached the heavens.

I channeled my vision once more into the crack of the hedge wall, and in an abrupt instant, the greenery diverged into a vast clearing — with a stark absence of polluted structures. Unsure if this was an indication of impending calamity, I chose to pinpoint where I felt the turmoil inside of my body: it was a deep moan in my abdomen, which made sense because I was quite behind on my daily devotions in the Earth Realm. The frame in front of me was subject to constant fluctuation, and it was only because my body submitted to cycles of constant and unprecedented change. On Earth, I flaunted a beauty that accessed the deep pride of my forefathers, but in this cool and empty realm, my body was a beautiful white rose that could be painted with any color I wished. 

Back to Eden: I still cried, but I could not produce an ocean. Spiritual hunger is mythological. My body is subject to biological essentialism. Madness I do not know. I still read stories, but they do not reach the access points of the lilies brimming in my mind. The only lilies that I ever have the luxury of accessing are strictly material, a delicate sensation between my fingertips — whose conception involved the serenation of soulful tears, Earthly tears. Once the Earth discovered the daughters of my tears, She turned them to ash and ordered me back into the Dream Realm. She could not understand that in this ideation I could not sleep, for I was mourning my children; I urged Her to disclose the reason behind her cruelty, but the only answer She could muster was that my greatest Earthly transgression was mistaking the cruelness of the Earthly body for the clarity of the Earthly spirit. 

Exhaustions do not precede you: they transfix you back to the truth. I was a white rose once again, with no desire to reach a hidden inventory of infinite color. Above the tranquil barrier between the sky and the horizon line floated the moon. Laughing. With each soft sonic shiver, the colors in the sky transformed gradually from a deep plum to a perfect indigo to a quiet lilac and then a subtle infantile blue. It was in the final phase that I could see the full face of the moon. Above the smile now was a tiny button nose bordered by two equally aquamarine eyes. The ground of these features was that perfect indigo, consumed my white rose body in previous successions of the amply cool dawn — shaped with a chin as sharp as her smile and as piercing as her feline ears: 

I am cheerfully guided by Earth

Just as kind and just as cutting 

I am a cat, yes – but I am Wise.

I coordinated with Earth before you returned, 

and She told me of the lilies! 

How curious…

Because when I smile down on you, 

I greet the petals of roses! 

I welted in my rose body, both an imposter and a stranger to my sorrow. And here now, this Great Cat was laughing at my delusions! With each jolt of tears that spawned in response to the Great Cat’s cackle, my height diminished, and I felt less and less like a lily. How terrible to realize that heaven was not heaven……for in that final time I gazed at the smile of the moon my body was met with an entire valley of lilies. I felt the pages of my book of devotions between the touch of my leaves. These were the lilies of my mind in their most natural form. I knew by the valley’s vastness that I was still in the Dream Realm, but in this season I did not seem to be the subject of mockery. Then I rediscovered the power of my wonder: Was it the laugh of the Great Cat that sprouted the lilies up from the soil of the empty valley in the Dream Realm, while in the Earthly Realm, it was my tears that conceived my daughters? My sadness is certainly curious, but God is certainly curiouser.

Written by Eden Mann

Edited by Justin Pello and Julia Brummell

Morning 

I wake to the sound of hooves on the frost-crusted ground, their cadence soft as heartbeat drums. From the kitchen window, I can see the deer standing in a semicircle, their heads low, dipping into the grass. I didn’t ask for this—I didn’t plan for a herd to adopt my backyard like it was an open field. But I remember the first one, the doe with the nicked ear, her ribs taut under her skin like the strings of an unused violin. Carefully, I offered an apple. 

She took it, then stayed. 

Noon 

The scent of their damp fur lingers like pine sap as I crouch among them, scattering corn and prickly lettuce. I can feel their breath when they come close, warm as my own. A buck lingers farther back, his antlers curved and shadowing his dark eyes. I’ve never touched him, but he watches as if he already knows the shape of my hand. I wonder if this is how trust feels—fragile, a balance that could tip with one wrong motion. 

Neighbors shake their heads when they pass. “They’re not pets,” they say, but isn’t anything that lingers our own? 

Evening 

As the sky fades to purple, they leave one by one back into the woods beyond the fence line. The first time, their leaving felt like a loss. Now it feels like a ritual. The quiet they leave behind: the absence of their crunching hooves, I’m ready for it. 

My breath echoes against the chilly, black stillness. 

The yard is empty, but their shapes remain—pressed into the earth. The doe with the nicked ear, the black-eyed buck’s shadow, the skittish fawn that never comes too close–do they think of me when they disappear? Do they remember the scent of corn on cold mornings or the curvature of my hand? 

Maybe it’s simpler for them. Maybe what lingers isn’t thought but instinct, a pull toward what feels safe. 

But for me, their presence stays longer. It’s in the flattened grass where they often lay, the soft prints in the dirt, the quiet ache of watching something wild accept me, if only for a moment. Isn’t that what it means to belong to something? 

To let it carve out a place in you, even if it vanishes into the trees?

Written by Katie Sadowski

Edited by Brynn Murawski and Julia Brummell

Gather, the does hath drunk too soon –

Blood of spires, scath of bodies;

Scorn is the hue of the Garden’s follies.

Selene, art thou the muse of the Flower Moon?

Bathe thy bodies amongst the waters, and bind thy mares across the tides –

Gyrate man’s sorrows, bind the membrane to roadsides 

of matter serendipitous through the hymns of the squatters. 

Towards the centre the herd stampedes,

Fine charcoal beaches forsake thy mind:

“Hymns burn the days before the fruit’s rind,

and in oblivion, art Thy rage a ravaging tonic of devil’s mead?

If Thy sinners turn to me, who will turn to skies?

Yahwah, strain the Inferno 

for the Second Circle – a salutation in the morrow,

Blesses lust into blossoms off the chin of my lies.”

A mane of lines to an ember’s beau,

thy sought the damned out from Splendor:

Prophecy, rupture slowly; become the state in which thy shall find her –

Revel under pyres through the reaping call of the crow. 

Luna, steer the waters to the Earth; flood not the mind but the heart.

Seek the Soul’s salvation, the very crux of the cliffside; 

Thy herd hath promised, the crane of stupor mares confide –

Tears confess truths Thy man deem tart. 

God seeped her arteries clot-stolen,

For the marriage of the nymphs foretold:

“The themes shall break slowly; the Soul shall grow old!”

In theft, “regress,” bind–surface beauty from the mold. 

Past the Fall: cyssan Lilith in thy rye,

Fortune are the inquiries in the Garden’s still-fold stalls;

Flowers sprout in seas, pass in captures of the trawls:

Arrive, Hymn of Eden – remember flesh in Thy sigh.

Written by Eden Mann

Edited by Emma Mutis and Elisabeth Kay

I’ve yearned for the spotlight my entire life. I started dancing when I was five years old, and even though I understood that I wasn’t great at it, I still loved doing it. All of my dance home videos feature me in the back row slightly offbeat but with the biggest smile beaming from the stage. I always loved the glitter eyeshadow, flowy skirts, and curled hair. At age 9 I transitioned from dancing to singing, and found my voice in vocal lessons. 10 years later I still meet with the same vocal coach every Wednesday at 7pm. When I started singing I thought I wanted to be Taylor Swift, but I started theater in middle school and finally realized I actually wanted to be Rachel Berry. Not only did I admire her gorgeous voice, but her unrelenting tenacity. 

When I danced I loved the showbiz of the performance. When I sang I loved feeling like I earned applause. Throughout middle school I was an extremely awkward kid. I was never the girl who was asked to cotillion or did well in public speaking, but when I was on the stage none of that mattered. I was able to step into my alter ego. The intimidating Witch in Into the Woods, Elsa the powerful older sister in Frozen, or the funny smart side character in Mary Poppins. Even from a young age, each of these roles taught me a valuable lesson I carry with me today. I loved the play aspect of the theater, truly living for the art of pretending. This gave me more confidence in my life and helped me form truly important friendships. I’m a goal oriented person and a perfectionist at my core. I loved the execution and discipline within the theater. I began pushing myself and expecting more of myself. I maintained vocal lessons, specifically focusing on developing my voice in opera. This further pushed me and cultivated my intense nature. By the time I entered high school I knew I was good at theater, and was able to reap the benefits. But, I was in a vulnerable and impressionable position. At 14 I loved theater because I loved knowing I was good at something. I loved the applause. 

I kept searching for that applause. My freshman year of highschool I had a big part in the play we put on, and was the only freshman in the cast. I was taken under the wing of upperclassmen and guided towards this quest of perfection. I’ve always been good at doing what I’m told. My director told me what was required of me in order to get the applause I wanted.. My sophomore year I was the lead in the musical. Only freshman with a named part. Everyone hated me. Except the audience, they loved me, and I loved them. I was predominately friends with the upperclassmen, my peers started rumors about me and gave me more motivation to prove just how good I was and could be. This cycle continued into my junior year. 

When conversations regarding college became more serious I was dead set that I was majoring in musical theatre. I wanted to be on Broadway, and would do anything to make it happen. My high school director offered to be my acting coach, and together we would get me into whatever program I desired. Well things didn’t go according to plan. The college audition process pushed me in ways I didn’t know were possible, but ultimately for the better. I began considering why I loved theater and realized it was less about the applause and more making a difference in people’s lives. Walking out of college auditions, I found myself excited about programs that highlighted communication and politically motivated art more than the auditions that simply requested me to sing. I was interested in the collaboration of art and society. How does art inform our society and vice versa? I began working for a non-profit professional theatre company to make art more accessible. I worked to break down themes in complex shows and help raise money for thematically connected charities. I auditioned for 20 schools while maintaining my academics and performing. I burnt out. I didn’t handle rejection well, but I was still determined. 

May 15th, 2024: college decision date. Spur of the moment pick, University of 

Pittsburgh.

 May 17th, 2024: I got into NYU Tisch School of the Arts. 

May 21st, 2024: I turn down NYU Tisch School of the Arts. 

May 22nd, 2024: My director of 4 years tells me I will never have a career in acting. 

Early into my first semester at Pitt I realized I didn’t want to act anymore. At first I thought it was because I lost my love for performing, but I realized I hated having the pressure of other people weighing me down. I wanted to perform for myself, and explore other aspects of myself. For so long I have associated myself solely with theater, but who was I without it? It was time to figure it out. I learned that I’m a good leader. I learned that I enjoy writing. For the first time in my life, I don’t know what I want to do with my life. It’s terrifying. It’s freeing. There is beauty in change. It’s hard to recognize it. It makes you uncomfortable. It makes you gag, you hate yourself and feel lost at sea with no compass. But it’s beautiful. When you’re lost in the storm you find beauty in the dissonance of crashing waves. You don’t need to figure everything out right now. It’s okay to not know what you need and take a back seat. Your new dream will find you, don't go looking for it.

So to younger me. I’m sorry I gave up on “The Dream”. I’m sorry that you probably think that I’m weak for it. I’m sorry that I cannot bring you the goal you want. The goal you want is not the goal you deserve. I promise you. Just because we’re not “The Best” anymore does not mean that we wasted our time. It’s important to do things for you. We are finding a new dream. We’re not reinventing ourself, but adding onto the us we love so dearly. Our new dream is coming.

Written by Olivia Kessler

Edited by Lauren Deaton and Julia Brummell

I've always loved deeply, often giving up my time or the things I cherish to bring happiness to others. In fact, I might even say I found joy in sacrificing precious moments if it meant making someone else happy. Eventually, my mental health and struggle with anxiety became nothing more than an obstacle to overcome in order to prioritize someone else's happiness. I hadn't always known this about myself, but only recently came to this discovery after breaking up with the guy who I thought was my soulmate. The devastation was painful, I was plagued with the questions of "why" and "how" could this have happened. Time wasted away as days were spent grasping onto moments of pure bliss and promises, only to be discarded by a boy who didn't know what he wanted. 

It would be a lie to say that surrounding myself with friends and family didn’t help—it did, but only to a certain extent. While phone calls and small hangouts allowed my mind to attempt to stay present in the moment, the TV in my head refused to turn off, endlessly replaying our relationship like a broken channel stuck on repeat. And as with every rerun, you begin to notice details you missed before—small gestures, passing words, or fleeting expressions that seemed insignificant at the time but now felt heavy with unspoken meaning. I became both the viewer and the critic, pausing, rewinding, and replaying, obsessively analyzing every frame for a signal I had overlooked, some clue that might explain the sudden finale. But the static between scenes overwhelmed me, distorting every thought and stealing every inch of clarity. No matter how hard I tried to adjust the picture, the screen remained blurry, and I was left stranded in the noise, unable to make sense of the abrupt ending.

As the reruns slowed down, other moments began to fill the empty gaps. It was then I realized the TV in my mind hadn’t played other memories because there weren’t any left. I had pressed pause on my own life and threw out the remote. During our time together, I gave up the things I loved—more importantly, the things that defined me. I lost myself. I stopped swimming three times a week, writing poetry, painting, practicing yoga, and spending time with friends. I sacrificed my identity for someone else, but I promise, it will never happen again.

I will find myself again. I will prioritize myself again. I will find happiness again. The TV in my mind will slowly stop replaying those moments and begin showing new ones. So far, I’ve joined new clubs, spent more time with friends, started workout classes, and even found peace in being alone. Eventually, I’ll learn how to love again—but I will never sacrifice myself for someone else, especially not for a boy.

Written by Alex Decker

Edited by Wendy Moore and Elisabeth Kay

My hair has never been my own. 

At five years old, I cut myself bangs. Every summer, we visited Pensacola and my grandparents to celebrate mine and my sister's birthday (though our vacation was always over her actual birthday, never mine). I was being watched by my Bà while my parents were out of the house and I made my way to their bathroom, found a pair of scissors, and cut my long hair right off. A sliver of my personality shone through the cracks between the roughly chopped hair above my eyes. My mother was devastated. It took me 10 years to grow it out alongside the repeated retellings out of her mouth. 

By the time I was sixteen, my hair had grown down to my waist. The purple hair dye a stylist in Vietnam had slathered over the ends of my hair when I was fourteen had grown out now and all that was left was the dark brown locks that my peers had always tried to convince me were black. We had gone to Vietnam during the winter of 2019, before COVID forced a shutdown on all U.S. travel. My mom, brother, and dad were all getting stick and poke tattoos, and I stood by, too young to join them. Even in a country where I looked more similar to anyone I had ever seen, I felt out of place nonetheless. 

My fingers carefully wove my hair into a braid before my race. I would place my tinted sunglasses over top, pulling strands out from my temples to contour my face. The roundness of my cheeks were elongated by the long strands. My teammates marveled at how beautiful and straight it was. The low maintenance of my hair was the object of their desire. They would ask how I got it so smooth and I would say I only washed and conditioned it, prompting a laugh out of jealousy. 

My mother would run her hands through it and talk about how jealous she was of my hair and she would say, “don’t ever cut it.” 

I sat in my best friend’s light blue Honda CRV, running my hands through it saying, “don’t ever let me cut it.”

At nineteen, I stared at myself in the mirror. My hair– while it grew– it grew slowly, still resting just above my waist. Blanketed over most of my body, contouring around the curves of my torso and shoulders, it hid features I found most harsh about myself. The entirety of my middle school, highschool, and early college years, I hid behind the flowing wall of dark brown fur. During the winter, draped in scarves and hats and coats, the fur would travel up my neck, suffocating me, the sharp ends digging into my shoulders. 

Out of fear, I rarely allowed my mind to wonder about the skin underneath, and what freedom might feel like. When the voice rang out in my ears as I stared at the tresses covering my breasts and the birthmark on my left shoulder, I would slide my shirt back over my head and crawl back in bed. Eventually, the desire ran deeper through my veins, traveling up from my heart, into my neck, suffocating me, the sharp ends digging into my shoulders. Then, it was all I could think about. 

Are you nervous? My mother asked me the night before my appointment. Are you? I replied. She nodded her head. Are you nervous that I won’t like it? I questioned deeper. 

I’m worried that I won’t like it. She replied. 

As I sat down in the chair, the stylist immediately ran her hands through my hair. When I told her I was going short, she widened her eyes and looked at my mom. She had insisted on coming to see it cut, and though I didn’t really want her there, I felt the only way she’d believe it was true was if she saw it for herself. 

My body couldn’t be hidden any longer. The years of stress, rejection, and heartbreak fell to the ground as I asked her to cut it shorter. The light in my eyes dimmed and I began to see myself for the first time since I was twelve. 

Written by Ruby Kolik

Edited by Ashley O'Doherty and Elisabeth Kay

One night in high school, my mom and I got into it bad. I don’t remember what it was about, or if I cried, or who raised their voice. We likely said harsh things, each leaning into our argumentative tendencies–my own a product of hers. I don’t remember how it ended, but there was no resolution. I sat on our old leather couch as she fussed in the kitchen. It was late, and she was closing up downstairs, soon to go to bed. As she walked toward the stairs, she told me she had left a bottle of gummies on the kitchen counter in case I was constipated. I thought to myself she had real nerve talking to me like nothing happened and suggesting I take some supplement. It wasn’t until much later I looked back at the moment and laughed, realizing this was my mom’s way of expressing her care. 

Now that I’m in college, I forget to text my parents most days. We’ve never established a call schedule, as some of my friends have, and I find myself forgetting to inform them of life events altogether. It has become more common that our texts are random and unprompted, such as an 11 pm text from my mom about the full moon or a picture of the new Galaxie 500 album my dad bought. As simple as they are, each text acts as a push for connection, which is undeniably an act of love. I am reminded of the nights spent driving out to the rural parts of Illinois and stargazing with my mom or days playing my favorite bands in the car with my dad. Often, they text about our shared interests, but there is also an abundance of links to neighborhood news stories or blurbs about recent happenings that say far more about my parent’s interests than mine. These are no less an expression of love. 

It is frequently said that to be loved is to be known. While I agree, I would argue the opposite can also be true – to receive love is to know. To know my mom nags because she cares. To know my dad gets a kick out of sending me articles, that he thinks of me when he reads them on the train to work. To know my boyfriend will always offer me the snacks I don’t like in hopes one day I will try them. To know my roommate chooses to tell me about her teammate drama. Even if I don’t go to office hours as my mom advises, read the articles my dad sends, try the Trader Joe’s rice medley, or truly care about these random people, I never want them to stop. Receiving this love isn’t about how my loved ones cater to me, but how I can understand their intentions beneath small acts. Relationships are a two-way street, and if you only feel loved when it’s all about you, you’re destined to miss out.

It is surprisingly difficult to notice these acts of love. They hide in the mundane and become habitual. What was once a kind act becomes expected. Making your partner coffee starts as romantic before becoming routine. It is far more interesting to hear about the life of a new friend than an old one. With time and comfort, we lose appreciation. I want to be more cognizant of the love I receive daily. I want to enhance the already overwhelming gratitude I feel toward the people in my life. I know I am loved. It takes knowing to receive love.

Written by Clare Vogel 

Edited by Julia Allie and Julia Brummell

“Your heart will become a dusty piano in the basement of a church and she will play you when no one is looking. Now you understand why it’s called an organ” -Rudy Fransisco

I remember when they asked me if I’d like to be an organ donor at the DMV. I was seventeen and my response was: “Sure”. It’s bizarre to think about. Some stranger asks you if it would be okay to take the things that are supposed to keep you alive and place them inside somebody else, hoping it works out better for them. And they ask you as simply as they ask your first name. But, I always thought the answer was easy: “Yeah, sure”. I mean they should do that, really. What does it matter if I won’t be there to feel it?

Two kinds of people tend to get called crazy –  one feels too much and the second feels nothing at all. I often wish I were the latter. I’ve lived my whole life feeling things very intensely. If I can’t feel it deep in my chest, is it worth anything at all? It certainly doesn’t belong to me. Might as well give it away. 

I spend a lot of time thinking about feelings: how all-consuming they can be, how strongly one person can feel for another, and how we can never completely understand how someone else feels. The feeling of love especially consumes me. I always thought it was the sole purpose of life. I have never taken romance lightly. I have always let it drag me down by the collar. 

Lately, I’ve been jealous of people who treat love like a game. I have never once wanted to play. I meet someone great and wonder if he’s the best man I’ve ever met or if I’m about to go head-to-head with the best player in the state. I think I could learn the rules and win, send the opponent home crying. But I never wanted to be a champion. I just wanted to be the head in the crook of his neck. 

I sometimes wish I were heartless. I sometimes wish I were less human. I wish I were cold and detached. I wish I liked walking away. I wish I wanted to play this game. It is exhausting to care. I try to care quietly. It is hard to be quiet. It’s hard to walk out the squeaky door. I find it all so hard. I find myself on my laptop in the middle of my sleepless night looking up ridiculous questions. How to forget someone exists. How to be stoic. How to stop a feeling. 

I know it will fade eventually, though it feels like it’ll weigh me down forever. I can’t help but wish that this will be the last time I am so overcome with emotion for somebody. I try to build walls. I try to protect myself. I consider sharpening my teeth with my nail file. If I can get the timing right next time, I’ll consider biting before I get bitten. I’ll consider playing to win.

But then, I think of the glossy photo of seventeen-year-old me on my driver’s license. The girl in that photo hadn’t broken anyone’s heart yet, and no one had broken hers. I think about the shrug she gave when asked about the organs. If I could go back in time,  I would never tell her to care less or to learn how to be made of steel. I wouldn’t ask her to be less human or to give less of herself away. I would laugh and let her go so she could learn how to walk away and how to protect herself. So she’d see what I know now: It is a privilege to have a hopeful heart. It is a greater privilege to give it away.

 So while I’m still around to feel it, let it beat the way it beats. 

Written by Grace Catania

Edited by Marissa Granite and Julia Brummell

It took fourteen years for my brother to meet my eyes.

That summer was the first time people mentioned the change in us. 

I noticed. He didn’t. 

(This is the story of us.)

I bear the weight of memory 

While he crosses the street to avoid it. 

What a strange thing, 

Trauma manifesting in the material. 

I carry it in my feet. 

Him, in the knees. 

Pes planus. 

Osgood-Schlatter. 

Both born with the pain prepaid. 

Alcoholism. 

Narcissism. 

When you have spent your whole life surrounded with chronic pain, You learn young to tune it all out. 

Over the span of the past 400 days, 

Three medial menisci ruptured, one lateral, 

Two wrists shattered, one ACL torn, 

A kneecap dislocated, and a MCL sprain. 

The jokes ring around every table, 

Dance around those gathered by the fire. 

“What Brittle Bones!” 

They chant, we laugh. 

I catch his eyes 

(They look like mine), 

I hear the silence behind them 

(It sounds like mine). 

How much did I take for granted? 

What I wouldn’t give to climb the Rocks once more (They built over them last year), 

To carelessly ram into third base 

(Fiona and Mike threw away the hose), 

To make worlds come to life 

(You can be Blue, I’ll be Green), 

To share the Sunday silence with you like we used to. I wish it hadn’t taken fourteen years. 

Oh, the time we wasted 

On these brittle bones!

Written By Angela Hoey 

Edited by Ruby Kolik and Elisabeth Kay