You’re sitting cross-legged in the middle of a sea of cardboard boxes, your hair pulled up in a messy knot, an old college hoodie swallowing your frame. The late afternoon light spills through the tall windows of the new apartment, dust motes dancing in the air like glitter. Your back aches, your hands are a little sore from scrubbing kitchen cabinets, and your stomach’s grumbling because you’ve both been too busy unpacking to remember food exists—but you’re happy. No, not just happy. You’re in that kind of buzzed, giddy love-high that people write books about.