Teenage me lived in a world of paradoxes. I was loud with my friends but paralyzed by the thought of ordering a pizza over the phone. I thought I was an old soul because I listened to vinyl records, yet I didn't know how to do my own laundry. I wore my cynicism like a suit of armor, convinced that the world was a series of boring hurdles to clear before "real life" finally began.
The glossy surface of the 4x6 print is slightly tacky, a relic of a drugstore photo lab that hasn’t existed in a decade. I’m staring at a version of myself that feels like a fictional character—a kid with too much hair gel, a thrifted band tee that didn't fit, and eyes that were constantly searching for an exit sign. teen you pic
I see the grip they have on their backpack strap, knuckles a little white. They were so afraid of being "average" that they almost forgot to be happy. Teenage me lived in a world of paradoxes
Looking at that kid now, I want to reach through the pixels and the paper. I want to tell them that the "somewhere else" they’re looking for isn’t a city or a job—it’s a state of being comfortable in their own skin. I want to tell them that the things they’re currently embarrassed by—the weird hobbies, the niche music, the way they laugh too loudly—are actually the only parts of them that will matter in ten years. I wore my cynicism like a suit of
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