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L ook, I need to tell you something that's been eating at me for months now. Social media is over—at least for me, and maybe for all of us who are brave enough to admit we've been played. I'm 22, which means I grew up with this stuff. My Instagram account has a birthday older than my very first spotify playlist. But here's the thing: I'm suffocating in my own digital choices, and the science backs up what my gut has been screaming. Every morning, I wake up and reach for my ph

I'm staring at the melon pan we just got from the bakery we always return to, Fridays making the ritual. We’re in the car, and jazz curls through the speakers—notes restless in the thick hush between us. My father’s fingers drum the steering wheel, not keeping time with the music but with some private ache. I try to fake a conversation with my father. He responds not to me, really, but to whatever memory or longing jazz stirs within him—  “This guy is saiko,” he tosses. “No,