The Great Gatsby. My father bought me my first copy for my fifteenth birthday, and I fell in love. I spent a whole summer lounging around in the garden beside my dad, each with a copy in our hands while my mother tidied the flowerbeds. It was a simpler time. When summers were drenched in sunlight and the winters looked like cotton candy. Life felt manageable—fun, even. I had friends and hobbies. But like Gatsby’s, my life has turned sour and lonely. Autumns fade into winters, which melt into springs, and through it all my mind remains stuck on the same rainy November day. I don’t notice the
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Powerful
