When your very best friend sends you a text that says, "Move here so I can remember who I am," you want more than anything to do just that.
You want to move there, go over to her house, sit on the couch and make fun on the women on The View. You want to talk and gossip and laugh and cry. You want to remember what it was like to be fourteen, and nothing was more important than the boy in your history class who drove a red jeep.
You want to remember a time before babies and careers. Before second guessing our every move and trying to figure out what it all means.
You want to do just that.
But you can't.
And it's awful.