Post caption
𝘼𝙍𝙏 𝙊𝙁 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙀𝙓𝙄𝙏
I keep thinking about it. The intersection of love and losing, and what we really hold on to.
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Transcript
In chess, the smartest player wins. In love, the smartest player usually leaves. I came to the chess center because it's the only place in New York where overthinking is considered a skill. It was a room full of people pretending to focus on the board, when everyone was really best playing out their last relationship in 64 squares or less. I wasn't planning to play. I just stood there holding a night, like maybe it could explain the last seven years of my love life. Spoiler, it couldn't. He never played chess. He probably would have said it was too quiet, too slow, too honest. But he was everywhere. In the ticking, in the silence, in the version of me that still believes heartbreak should come with a scoreboard. It turns out, I don't miss him. I just miss having someone to lose to. And maybe that's the whole point. We don't worst to win. We just want proof that we were worth playing.