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The Summer Story You Can’t Escape
You say “this summer was a blur” and something behind your ribs tightens. You’re already editing three months into a sentence you’ll carry around like a stone in your mouth. The blur had textures—Tuesday mornings sweating in a coffee shop, that one sunset you forgot to photograph, the phone call that cracked something open. But you need a shape. So you give it one.
It’s a survival instinct. A form of tidying. You tell people the version you can live with: “It was fine. Busy. A bit of a mess, but I’m back now.” And the moment you say it, the summer hardens into an artefact. The mess becomes a…
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