I’m 35 and I just made dinner for one. A simple pasta, you know? Usually, this kitchen is a fucking battlefield of pots and pans and my grandparent yelling about something… now it's just quiet. And I keep thinking, as I stir this sauce, about all the times they asked me, "What about *your* art, mija?" and I’d just shrug, say bills needed paying, whatever. Like I CHOSE this life of designing other people’s shitty logos, instead of… I don't know… painting something that actually mattered. Now they’re sick, and I’m here, alone, eating this bland pasta, and all I can think is, God, what a waste.