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Opening an old, dust-laden yearbook revives the echoes of 𝙎͟𝙤͟𝙧͟𝙩͟𝙖͟ 𝙈͟𝙤͟𝙙͟𝙚͟𝙧͟𝙣͟ 𝙎͟𝙥͟𝙖͟𝙧͟𝙩͟𝙖. Those days felt so vivid, still calling me back. Perhaps they were always meant to be remembered with you. Love and drama, or love is drama itself. Are we better now that we're older?

Opening an old, dust-laden yearbook revives the echoes of 𝙎͟𝙤͟𝙧͟𝙩͟𝙖͟ 𝙈͟𝙤͟𝙙͟𝙚͟𝙧͟𝙣͟ 𝙎͟𝙥͟𝙖͟𝙧͟𝙩͟𝙖. Those days felt so vivid, still calling me back. Perhaps they were always meant to be remembered with you. Love and drama, or love is drama itself. Are we better now that we're older?

Opening an old, dust-laden yearbook revives the echoes of 𝙎͟𝙤͟𝙧͟𝙩͟𝙖͟ 𝙈͟𝙤͟𝙙͟𝙚͟𝙧͟𝙣͟ 𝙎͟𝙥͟𝙖͟𝙧͟𝙩͟𝙖. Those days felt so vivid, still calling me back. Perhaps they were always meant to be remembered with you. Love and drama, or love is drama itself. Are we better now that we're older?

Opening an old, dust-laden yearbook revives the echoes of 𝙎͟𝙤͟𝙧͟𝙩͟𝙖͟ 𝙈͟𝙤͟𝙙͟𝙚͟𝙧͟𝙣͟ 𝙎͟𝙥͟𝙖͟𝙧͟𝙩͟𝙖. Those days felt so vivid, still calling me back. Perhaps they were always meant to be remembered with you. Love and drama, or love is drama itself. Are we better now that we're older?

ᏚNᏫᏫᏃᎬ ᏟᏞᏌᏴ

Opening an old, dust-laden yearbook revives the echoes of 𝙎͟𝙤͟𝙧͟𝙩͟𝙖͟ 𝙈͟𝙤͟𝙙͟𝙚͟𝙧͟𝙣͟ 𝙎͟𝙥͟𝙖͟𝙧͟𝙩͟𝙖. Those days felt so vivid, still calling me back. Perhaps they were always meant to be remembered with you. Love and drama, or love is drama itself. Are we better now that we're older?

Opening an old, dust-laden yearbook revives the echoes of 𝙎͟𝙤͟𝙧͟𝙩͟𝙖͟ 𝙈͟𝙤͟𝙙͟𝙚͟𝙧͟𝙣͟ 𝙎͟𝙥͟𝙖͟𝙧͟𝙩͟𝙖. Those days felt so vivid, still calling me back. Perhaps they were always meant to be remembered with you. Love and drama, or love is drama itself. Are we better now that we're older?