I remember afternoons on the cliffs, taking long drags off cigarettes, whispering into the wind as it whipped our hair across our cheeks. I remember these small, tragically beautiful moments, our desperate attempts at romanticizing our own sadness. How else could we have passed the time and still survived? We were a snapshot in time, stuck in our sadness in the past. We've grown since then to be so much more than that, but there's something strangely special about those moments. Something about it that's burned into my memory, the smell of smoke mixing with the salty sea air. Kelp rotting away on the shore below us, like a sick metaphor for what we were doing to ourselves. The wet tips of my canvas shoes from carelessly stepping through puddles, and the familiar feeling of cold feet.