#9 Summer of Grief — A Version of Yourself That No Longer Exists

When I promised myself I’d write something every day, I knew I’d eventually hit a wall — a moment where writing would feel too heavy, where energy would be low and nothing particular would come to mind. It’s the second night in a row I’ve come home late, and my body knows it. My eyes are tired, my steps slow, and my thoughts scattered. And still, I want to write. Not because I have to, but because I said I would try. Even if the trying is quiet, small, imperfect.

On the way home, I sat on the train with a colleague. We spoke about life, about work, about stillness and slowing down. There’s a kind of unspoken understanding between people who are tired in the same way. Then suddenly, five teenage girls burst into our carriage. Laughing, shouting, a little drunk on cheap alcohol and even cheaper teenage thrill. They were maybe fifteen. Giddy, loud, tripping over their own words as they boasted about who had kissed who, swapping secrets and lip gloss like currency. They didn’t care who was watching. Why should they? It was their time, their moment to explore, to sneak drinks they weren’t old enough to buy, to kiss boys they’d soon forget, to scream just because they could.

We watched them with a kind of quiet awe. Their energy was absurd, contagious even. While we were sitting in the soft exhaustion of a long workday, they were living out the beginning of everything. New crushes, clumsy romance, wild nights that would become soft-edged memories. They weren’t afraid of making a scene. They were still too alive for shame.

I remembered myself at that age. The first kisses. The first parties. That strange freedom that comes before responsibility takes hold — when everything feels like it might be the start of something. When you haven’t yet learned what to be careful of. That time isn’t something I want back, but there’s a kind of grief in seeing it again. The good kind. A tender nostalgia that reminds you how much you’ve already lived.

When we got off the train, they did too — only to realize, too late, that it was the wrong stop. They let out a collective shriek, loud enough to wake the whole station. They’d missed the last train. They were running in all directions, looking for help, for a way back, still laughing as they panicked. It was chaotic and strange and completely alive — the last burst of something electric in the late hours.

One day, I think, they’ll grief this night too. In a quiet way. Not with regret, but with the kind of longing you feel for a version of yourself that no longer exists. The girl who kissed boys she wasn’t supposed to. Who laughed too loud. Who missed the train and didn’t mind.