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It was perfect for thirty seconds. Then it touched a carpet.

Cherry was royalty. Cinnamon was chaos. Black licorice was a war crime. You ranked them and you ranked each other.

You learned the box stitch at camp. You never made anything useful. You were never the same.

You never bought it. You never asked for it. It was just there, in the waiting room, already wet.

Nobody taught you this. Nobody told you to stop. You just discovered it one day in art class and never fully recovered.

On the peculiar grief of being born just early enough to remember what the world felt like when it was still slow, still local, and still yours.