Dear Wigleaf,

This year, I went to live in New York City. I took a break from the Missouri life: the campus walks, the fountain sodas, the sitting in your roommate's car in a parking lot. Instead, I went to the opera. I walked the reservoir. I got a membership to the MET and sat in front of the Temple of Dendur for hours at a time. I learned to navigate the subway and only saw one rat. I was alone most of the time, but that was okay—my intensely introverted personality is built for that kind of thing.

I miss Lexington Avenue and the pizza shop across the street, but I also cried with joy when I came back to my hometown: the lawns were green and beautiful and I could hear the birds chirping all around. I spent a Missouri summer kissing my parents goodnight and going to bed in the same room as my little sister. My high school sweetheart—my love, the boy I write about—put a diamond ring on my finger. When we were 17 and quarantined, we played video games over FaceTime and dreamed of a future together. Now, we'll get married next June.

And I'm writing now from a mediocre coffee shop in the building where I study and work. This is the third city I'll call home this year. The walls in this building are made of glass and everyone in here is 21 years old. It's bright and hot out—the peak of Missouri August—but the leaves outside are shifting in the wind. I'm watching them.

Life, too, keeps shifting. I guess that's my point. I still feel new at it.

All my love,
Ashlynn