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Everybody I Love Is Carrying an Outdated Map of Me.
Being known can become its own kind of loneliness when the people closest to me are still navigating by a version I no longer inhabit.
Old maps do not become useless when the coastline moves. They become dangerous in a more tender way: most of them are still almost right.
The harbor is familiar. The road names remain. Enough of the landscape matches that nobody thinks to question the route. Then the traveler follows a line drawn years ago and arrives at water where solid ground used to be.