Imogen, Obviously

by Becky Albertalli

I hated that—hated the lack of certainty. My mind never really settles in a new space until I know all the rules for engagement. What’s encouraged, what’s allowed—or even what’s not allowed. Because restriction carries its own kind of safety.

Every think piece felt like the definitive final word—and then I’d be fully convinced by the exact opposite points in the next one. I was a human sailboat, blown in every direction by a storm of decades-old media discourse.

Water if you’re on anxiety meds,” says Declan, “and vodka if you should be on anxiety meds.”

I try to focus on the song, because I don’t want to miss the line about Clairo loving Sofia with her hair down. It makes my throat catch every time—there’s just something so earnest about it. Imagine being loved with your hair down. Loved without an agenda, without an audience. Never having to earn and re-earn it. Love without modulation.

And the talking part’s easier too. Normally there’s a whole security system in my brain, checking and rechecking every single thought before it’s allowed to leave my mouth. But now the guard’s gone off duty.

Maybe shared experiences shouldn’t be the foundation at all. Maybe it should be a promise to hold space for variation.