Rewind.

The first mixed tape I ever received was from a boy in ninth grade.

He wasn’t my boyfriend—

but he was a boy, and he was a friend.

That tracklist became the soundtrack of my teenage years,

angsty lyrics and sad love songs

looping until my parents begged for silence.

I didn’t care.

I loved every note.

The second mix arrived years later,

burned onto a compact disc.

This time, from a boy who could claim me as his other half.

I wanted to love it—

but I judged it harsher,

cared for it less.

It was made to replace the original,

and that felt like betrayal.

But the joke was on him.

The first was superior,

not just for its songs,

but for its form:

a real cassette.

The only thing my ’99 Taurus could play.

She spit his CD back like she knew

his intentions weren’t pure.

Even his duplicate track felt lazy,

forgetting he wasn’t the one

who introduced me to Feel Good Drag.

His greatest failure, indeed.

After the breakup, it was just me and Ol’ Reliable.

Windows down, I-90 stretched wide,

screaming with The Classic Crime

at the top of my lungs.

Until the deck faltered.

My heart cracked with the tape.

That summer was already fraying,

and this felt like the final straw.

I dug for a pencil in the console—

but it was no use.

The tape was DOA.

Gravedigging,

her swan song.

Even now, when I hear those songs,

I still feel the hum of that old Taurus,

the static of the tape deck,

and the way the music

stitched my life together

long after the cassette was gone.

Listen to the cassette tape on Amazon Music: Joel's Mixed Tape

Listen to the CD on Amazon Music: Brandon's Mixed Tape

Listen to the cassette tape on Spotify: Joel's Mixed Tape

Listen to the CD on Spotify: Brandon's Mixed Tape