you didn’t write about 27 for some time because you were dizzy. dizzy. the word to describe the concoction of break ups, moving twice, living four different lives, and the moments in between that spun you, spun you, spun you. spun you out the home you built with the person you thought you’d marry. spun you into the apartment that feels the most home, august of 2024 and crying every saturday. your room being the quietest room you’ve ever slept in. your room hosting your mourning soul, watching you become human again from the ghost you first were when you arrived. spun you to sit in front of your old apartment on a random evening in November, this time as an observer, and realizing you had moved on and out more than you knew. how dizzy and romantic it felt that the new tenants had a colorful light like your old one. how sitting in front of the old place, and realizing you were not only physical, but mental miles away from it, felt freeing. 27 spun you into moving forward. spun you into the hands of a woman who could not hold you. spun you into another’s arms that one night. spun you into one night stands, flings, reconnections, moments you felt sun beam made, where your skin felt rush of a strangers touch. spun you onto dance floors. spun you onto quiet coffee runs by yourself. spun you into many silent moments by yourself. movie theaters, pilates, restaurants, drives, the gym, cities, park dates. how quiet the world felt. how loud it became coming home at 5 am after a night of partying. how loud your laugh felt at 7 am sunrises with your sister and friends in Las Vegas, watching the morning start as your drunk selves tumble into bed. you can’t write about the year without talking about new years. you can’t write about 27 without talking about breaking your bone for the first time, how silly it all felt. how that weekend broke your heart. how abuelita was now on a countdown, and you, religiously watching the date on a calendar change. you in Chicago. heart full, phone dead, by yourself at Lake Michigan watching the sunset. crying as you are reminded life is short. you always cry when you remember that at 27. you hold yourself in that moment, kissing your shoulder in gratitude. miguel saying goodbye to your grandma. her asking him to take care of you. crying our souls out. abuelita’s hand on my face, reminding me of how beautiful i am. mia holding me. mia and i laughing as we lay around the apartment. rocky and the toyotathon. mallory, leah, the girls and your joshua tree trip. my friends. my sweetest friends. my beautiful family. all who hold patience for me. you write about 27, you remember it is the first year you say i love you more to the world. and maybe, just maybe, i can write about it all. maybe one day i will have the words. maybe one day i’ll find the right imagery. maybe one day i can explain the magic of 27. how the year spun me, spun me, spun me free.