my hands keep clenching and unclenching, like trying to wring out a dishrag that's already bone dry, not sure why i'm even typing this, it's just… the echo of a kid's laugh, bouncing off the buildings downtown, spring trying to claw its way out of the pavement and then grief all at once and the back of my throat starts to burn again, not like Priya's matcha this time, that's a good burn, this is just that old ache. maybe she's right, maybe i DO feel everything too loud, too fast, too much and i'm sure there's a playlist for it, somewhere in the chaos but god, i just want the volume turned down for like five minutes, you know? The body keeps the score, they say, but it's not just trauma, is it? Joy, sorrow, the sharp tang of unexpected beauty — it all piles up in the cells, a history whispered by nerve endings and the tightening of muscles we didn't even know we had. Like rings on a tree, each year etched into the grain.