Dear pompom (that means you, like dear diary),

I like ABBA. That sentence still feels too small for how normal it feels to say it, like it should come with more explanation but somehow doesn’t need any.

We went bowling tonight, and the place felt like it was permanently stuck between neon lights and laughter that never quite finished echoing. The lanes were glowing like they were trying to pretend they were more important than they are.

At some point, I stopped feeling like I was just “bowling” and started feeling like I had stepped into one of those scenes where life forgets you’re supposed to be self-conscious. I was dancing between turns, smiling too easily, moving like I had been 8 years old for a couple hours instead of 13.

It wasn’t even just happiness—it was that strange kind where you forget to monitor yourself. Like the version of me that usually watches everything from the back of my mind just quietly left the room.

ABBA was there in the background of it all, steady and normal in a way that made everything feel safe without needing words.

I didn’t feel little in a baby way. More like… time briefly stopped asking me to grow up.

For a while, I wasn’t trying to be older or younger. I was just there—laughing, bowling, existing—like the world had loosened its grip for a couple of hours and decided I didn’t need to be anything complicated.

And then we left, and I remembered I’m 13 again. But it didn’t feel like losing something. More like putting something gently back on a shelf and knowing I can pick it up again someday, I just hope that day comes very soon