I’ve been thinking about my history with love lately—or rather, the intricate and oftentimes tumultuous relationships I had entangled myself with throughout time. I look at them now like how I would a photo album. I no longer wonder why some pictures faded more than others. I understood why they’re discolored. It’s always bittersweet when I look at them, but most of the time I feel okay. It was never a waste of time, for me—the years spent loving them, yearning for them...