We keep meeting in the same park because it’s free and the benches don’t ask questions, but that’s also why they’ll never let us grow. If we want to move beyond this circle of restless kids with secondhand phones, we start small — one zine, printed, smuggled into school lockers, left in tram seats. No website, no handles, nothing traceable. We use the old names, the ones our grandparents gave us before the brands took over. We meet in shifts, like night shifts at the call center, so no one’s absence draws eyes. And we stop calling it “hiding” — that word belongs to the ones who broke us.
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