I learned from you to play music too loudly.

Growing up, I almost never wore earbuds because I was nervous about ruining my hearing. Whenever I thought my hearing was getting worse, I wouldn't listen to music for days because I wanted to preserve the sensitivity of my ears.

You changed that. "I'm blowing out my brains with music," you told me. I was horrified. "Don't do that," I implored. "You want your ears. You want your brains." You laughed then, as though you were years older than me, and told me I had a lot to learn.

I suppose you were right. I did learn a lot from you. I used to sip at hot drinks and now I gulp them down and relish the scalding feeling in my throat. I used to dip my toes in freezing-cold pools and now I jump in with my eyes closed and my teeth clenched and tell myself that I have conquered the cold. I used to smile at boys and feel genuinely vulnerable when they'd smile back. Now I smile with a hardened heart and feel nothing but fleeting regret when they smile back.

I used to look left, right, and left again before crossing the street. Now I step out into the road and then look, a half-hearted attempt to pretend I'm still trying.