Oh, and what would life be without music? Without the songs that smell like last summer. Like warm asphalt, like nights we were never supposed to have, like that brief, endless freedom. The thing is—every night, we slipped out, quietly shutting the door, sneaking through the streets like we were escaping reality. At home, there were rules, arguments, the never-ending “Where have you been?” But out here? Out here, we were just sixteen, with pockets full of cigarettes and heads full of dreams that only made sense at night. And there was always music. Playing from a speaker that was way too quiet, drifting from open car windows, coming from our own voices as we screamed the lyrics into the dark. And as long as it played, we weren’t lost. As long as it played, nothing else mattered. And that’s the thing—last summer was a song, and we turned it up louder than we should have. Now it sounds like something that won’t come back, but that’s okay. Because it’s still here. In the playlist, in our minds, in our hearts.