Crimson staff writer

Andrew W. Badinelli

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Since Forgotten

That was the first time of many times someone thought something was wrong with me, and the experience was more physical than mental. My face burned, which was shame. My stomach felt heavy, which was worry. And then my heart tightened, which was it preparing its defenses for the next time.

Coordinates: Amazon@Boston

There is only one other customer in the store, who seems to be waiting for an Amazon staff member to appear behind the counter. He turns, we make eye contact, and he looks back at his phone. Neither of us went to an Amazon pick-up location to interact with other people.

Coordinates: Mount Auburn Street

If you look down past your phone, you’ll see the sidewalk bricks play a game of reverse Whack-a-Mole, rising unevenly out of the ground to fight back against your steps. Even if you survive the cars and the middle fingers and the tourists and that tenth Lumineers song, they still seem to say, screw you. Your foot strikes a particularly raised brick. You stumble. You look around but shake it off.

Lonely Together

We don’t have to share our most personal space, our most personal lives, with someone else. Oftentimes, though, I want to.