New Year’s Day, I write resolutions in my notebook with the same precision I apply to project timelines.

Call parents weekly. Take Rebecca to dinner once a month. Maintain professional boundaries with Miles.

By January 3rd, I’m standing in Miles’s apartment for the first time, and every resolution is already crumbling.

“Sorry about the mess,” Miles says, moving a stack of books off the couch. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

The apartment is chaotic. Sketches taped to every wall, some overlapping, creating layers of ideas. Books stacked on surfaces never meant to hold them. Plants hanging in the windows, thriving despite what appears to be complete neglect.

It’s nothing like my...