For the kids who grew up on glowing screens and golden afternoons. We grew up in the hum of early Wi-Fi, when everything felt new and endless. When happiness came in the shape of a Wii remote, and the world fit inside our living room. We played Club Penguin and Webkinz, collected stuffed animals that smelled like childhood, and swore our Neopets were alive. We begged for just “five more minutes” on the computer, eyes wide at the glow of the screen that somehow felt like magic. Afternoons smelled like sunscreen and chalk. We raced scooters down cracked sidewalks, took turns with the jump rope, and made wishes on dandelions we thought might actually come true. We wore mismatched friendship bracelets and sparkly sneakers that lit up when we ran. We called each other on home phones and got nervous when parents answered. The world was small— but it was ours. Then middle school crept in, awkward and loud and confusing. We learned how to take selfies, how to delete them, how to pretend we didn’t care. Tumblr quotes, Instagram filters, Snapchat streaks that felt like lifelines. We grew up learning to perform, to smile just right, to look happy enough to be believed. We stayed up too late on FaceTime, talking about people we barely understood, about futures we thought we could predict. Music became our language— Taylor Swift, One Direction, lyrics we swore were written just for us. Our first heartbreaks came in half-read messages and sudden silences. We learned what it meant to miss someone you’d never actually met. Then came high school— football games and crowded hallways, cafeteria tables that divided the world. We wrote our dreams in notebooks we’d never open again, laughed too loud to hide how scared we were to grow up.