I sat in the airport and thought - about the weekend, about my friends, about all the stupid expectations I have every time I go back to St. John’s. If I’d left on Saturday, maybe I’d feel differently. Blossoming mosh pit bruises, smoke-scented clothes. Running away before I remembered why I left in the first place. But instead, I’d stayed. And I was reminded of all the things it could be (should be), and all of the ways it falls short.

I fled back to Toronto. There’s a certain comfort in big city anonymity.