I have been talking to a girl who actually tries to love me back—an experience entirely foreign to my life. The truth is, she is far too good for me, and I mean that sincerely. She was accepted into Brown University, she organizes school events, and she is lovely, gorgeous, and somehow intends to care for me. I wonder if I am being overly optimistic, or perhaps she is merely being kind; yet, the reality is that I have begun to care deeply. I know I can be self-destructive, occasionally obsessive, and prone to overthinking. I once encountered a phrase that said, “Just don’t overthink, jazz it up”. It left me feeling somewhat hopeless because my life had become an unfinished work—a routine that repeats daily, even through the darkest hours. I need that spark again: the improvisation of life, much like jazz. High tones, frantic melodies, moments that are trembling and slow, then fast, then chaotic—but in the end, jazz leads me to peace. Art leads me to peace. My friends are the kind of people who, if seen on the street, might be judged as irresponsible or dangerous teenagers; and in truth, they are a bit wild. Yet even they feel this emptiness. Though we may not be on the same page, the words that form us are composed of the same letters: we all feel scared, empty, or useless at times. We carry our traumas, our triumphs, and our descents within minds that are far too complex. That is why I write. Returning to this girl: most of my peers prefer fleeting relationships—brief connections that are more physical than profound. But I could never love that way. I don’t say this to cast myself as "different," but because I genuinely cannot love without actually loving. When I care for someone, I give everything, though I try to keep it controlled; I am not a rampage of emotions. I often struggle to express myself, yet there are people who shift my perspective and help me articulate everything my hollow heart holds. She could be a path toward love—a point on the line I follow toward the future.