At the start of 2020, I sat on an empty beach under the stars as the waves made blue whorls in the darkness, and I kissed the faces of those next to me around a campfire we had dug into the sand. We drank champagne from miniature bottles. When we finally went indoors, our skin was cold and imprinted with night; we stripped and stood in a sauna until the feeling came back to our fingers, washed out what smoke was in our hair. In the morning, I still smelled it on my pillowcase. That world which was this one, but not quite, feels so impossibly far that if I were to go to the beginning again, I would turn back.