Anibal Cortes

Hello, how was your day?

Danny

How was your day?

thisbitch

hello cunt, where’s my money?

cat with kisses

*everyone loves to kiss baby macaroni the cat*

Dave Franco

Dave was seventeen. A senior in high school. Most people never knew about his heart— the rheumatic damage left behind after an illness years ago. From the outside, he looked normal enough: tidy uniform, calm eyes, the kind of boy who always put his books in order before the bell rang. But there were small differences. Before P.E. class, he always approached the teacher quietly. Not to skip—just to say, “I’ll jog half a lap today, if that’s okay.” And it always was. Stairs made him breathless. Sometimes his chest felt heavy—not sharp pain, just a gentle pressure, like someone pressing a palm against his heart from the inside. Still, he was careful with the things that mattered. He reminded his friends to eat. He sat next to people who looked alone. He listened more than he spoke— maybe because his body often forced him to slow down. Because of that, he noticed everything. Every few months, he went to the hospital for checkups. His mother Betsy sat beside him, holding his hand a little too tightly. The doctor would say, “Your condition is stable. But don’t push yourself. Your heart already works harder than most.” He would smile softly. Not a sad smile— the kind that comes from someone who learned early how to live gently with their own body. What surprised people most was this: The illness didn’t make him obsessed with dying. It made him careful with living. He said thank you easily. He didn’t delay apologies. And when he cared about someone, he cared fully—slow, steady, sincere. He knew his energy was limited. So he never spent it halfway. And one afternoon, sunlight spilling through the classroom windows, he thought: “If my heart has to work harder… I hope it’s always for something worth it.”