At the start of the year we watched two lovely people vow to be true forever as I shivered in a red lace dress made for a 13-year-old Spanish girl. I can probably be friends with a 13-year-old Spanish girl, if she'll let me. In Paoay I bruised my hip repeatedly on a 4x4, as billions of golden grains of sand stretched out before us and burrowed into our shoes, our hair, the backs of our ears. It took a week for the bruises to fade. We discovered it was too cold to swim. We shared two and a half steamed crabs so fresh we could crack them open with our bare hands, their tangerine shells crumbling underneath our fingers. A 12-hour drive in which I promised not to sleep, but did anyway. You didn't mind. Three days and three nights in Singapore crammed with roller coasters and good coffee and convenience store runs and subway rides and sudden rain and Chet Faker and yellow chicken rice. Sam Herring says he tried hard just to soften someone, and perhaps nobody should even have to do that, because we need skin that doesn't crack open easily, doesn't fall apart at the slightest touch. I missed you when I went away on my own, like I always do. It's been two years since I stopped being able to see clear blue without thinking of you. There are 11 months lined up in front of us like pools we have to dive into. We will. It'll be too cold to swim but we'll swim anyway. Try not to bruise ourselves. Remember not to soften.