I remember quite vividly begging my parents, as only a tween can, to drop me off as far from the entrance of the Freehold Mall as possible.
Everyone knows you look way cooler walking through glass double doors by yourself, and there were some hot eighth graders that didn't know I existed at a Cinnabon on the business end of those doors.
Cut to twenty something (fine, almost 30) years later, standing at a very different glass entryway, and coolness be damned—all I wanted was someone holding my hand, and by my side.
Granted these were now hospital doors, and I was headed in to birth a child solo versus shop for scrunchies, but there’s still something about being “dropped off” someplace that feels so familiarly casual despite the gravity of.