A year isn’t just the good things. It’s everything else, too. The early-morning hangovers, tearful confessions, that one-too-many glass of wine. Fighting loneliness, fighting fear, just plain old fighting. The disappointments, the rejections, the fantasies that don’t quite come true. The nights that seem too long, the days you just can’t seem to get it together. All of that makes up the year. The good and the bad. The days you’d want to repeat a million times, and the ones you can’t think about too much because weeks, months later, they still sting. The emergency room visits, the homesick trans-Atlantic phone calls, the “it’s not you but I’m just not ready.” Too much too soon and circumstances out of your control. A year is dancing in the kitchen but breaking down in your best friend’s arms. The nights tangled up in bed with a boy, and the nights you walked home alone. Intertwining your life with these people you come to like and love, then having to say goodbye. A year is all of that. Just moments. Just snapshots. Of the mundane and the novel; the heartbreaking, beautiful, strange, and confusing. That’s all it is. This blog, this year. That’s all.