I walk out of school into the blazing sun, courtesy of Georgia’s August. I feel myself start to sweat just as I get to my car, and I’m then relieved by my car’s AC. As I begin to drive out of the parking lot, I wonder what she’s thinking about. I’m hungry so on my drive I go to waffle house—the same one of our first date. The waitress and my hair is different, but the meal is the same—me having a conversation with myself, only this time it is in my head. Teen movies paint beautiful, if not angsty, portraits of what it is to live in the same town your whole life. The reality is the windy road covered in autumn leaves before you get to my house is still the street I was driving down when we were singing in the car together. My license is me in a shirt you picked out. The only viable store in this city is the one where you took us on a shopping spree with your first paycheck of your new job. I don’t talk to you anymore, but the city is a mile wide-by-mile high neon sign with your name on it.