Eve Hart's Messy On Purpose Playlist

Okay, so this is where I guess I say hi. Or whatever. Not that I care if you’re reading this. I’m not writing it for you. I’m writing it because I cleaned my floor today, which is a pretty big deal, and every time I do that, it means something inside me is shifting. And I’ve learned that if I don’t put it down somewhere, I’ll forget what it felt like. That’s the thing about being present, you have to carry your own history, and sometimes it gets too heavy to keep all to yourself.

So this is me, putting it down.

My name is Eve. Just Eve. It’s not short for anything, and no, I’m not going to tell you a cutesy backstory to make it sound cooler.

I exist like this because I want to. Because I like mess. Because I honestly believe that if you’re not crying in the middle of a song once in a while, you’re not paying attention.

I go to Northern Connecticut State and I study philosophy, which mostly means I sit in rooms full of guys who think quoting dead men is a personality. They talk about consciousness like it’s a software problem. Meanwhile, I’m in the back, no shoes, doodling vines on my leg, wondering if anyone else feels like we’re all just pretending this isn’t a collective breakdown.

Progress is fine, I guess. But not if it means losing touch with what makes us real. Not if it means trading in our emotions for the appearance of control. I believe in crying for no reason. I believe in keeping the chipped mug. I believe in lighting incense at weird hours because something in the air feels off. I believe in softness as protest.

I don’t wear shoes unless I have to, because honestly, they just feel like a barrier, like a weird layer between me and the real world, and I want to feel the cold floor, the cracked pavement, the grass if I’m lucky. I don’t put filters on my selfies, not because I think I’m better than anyone who does, but because I want to remember what my face actually looks like, like when I’m just staring in the mirror brushing my teeth and not posing or trying to look cute or whatever. I sleep on a mattress on the floor, not because I’m edgy or trying to be alternative or anything like that, but because it’s closer to the earth, and there’s something about being grounded, literally grounded, that makes my brain stop spinning. I collect sweaters, the old kind, the ones that still smell like someone else’s detergent or attic or perfume, because it feels like wearing a memory.

Now, let’s talk about the chip. The MIND chip. The thing everyone’s getting so they can be perfect and polished and “emotionally optimized.” People are lining up for it like it’s some magic fix. They say it’s for mental health. I think it’s for vanity. They want to be glossy. Untouchable. They want to filter their lives down to something shiny enough to post.

I dated one of them once, which, I know, should have been a red flag from the jump but I was in that weird hopeful stage where I thought maybe, and just maybe—someone could get it. And he said he did, he said he loved how messy I was, how I never followed a plan and how I felt everything too hard and too fast, and I believed him because, of course, I did. Then one day, like out of nowhere, he gets the chip. Doesn’t tell me beforehand, just shows up a few weeks later looking like himself but not really, like if someone was wearing his skin but hadn’t practiced being human yet. He talked like he was reading the side of a vitamin bottle, you know? Like, informative and weirdly cheerful and totally empty. And when he smiled...God, he looked like it was some kind of preloaded program that someone had chosen it for him. He said it made him feel "stable", like that was some kind of personal growth. He said he was "sleeping better" and I wanted to ask if that meant not dreaming anymore. And then he said it wasn’t about me, which is just what people say when it one hundred percent is.

He knew exactly how I felt about those creepy brain chip things, like I didn’t hold back, I was super clear, and he still went ahead and did it. So yeah, I dumped him. Immediately. Like, bye. Didn’t even give his new hyper-processed brain time to come up with a comeback. Did it suck? Obviously. I mean, I cried into a burrito, but still. Then, oh my god, he actually had the nerve to try and win me back with, like, a boom box moment. Straight out of a 90s rom-com. And I love those, like irrationally love them, but this? No. This was cringe and predictable and the opposite of romantic. Spoiler alert: it flopped.

And then he hits me with this whole monologue about how he did it for us. For us. As if getting a chip shoved into your neck to become emotionally beige is some kind of love language. He even, and I can’t believe this was real, offered me a friends-and-family referral. Like I’d get a punch card for loyalty upgrades or something. It was insulting. Not because he left, but because I wasn’t enough to make him stay human. And for a second—okay, a week, maybe two—I spiraled. Thought maybe that was the problem, that I was the reason it didn’t work, that I wasn’t shiny enough or easy enough or smooth enough around the edges.

But it wasn’t that. It was him picking clean over real. Picking the appearance of calm over the kind of ridiculous, 2 a.m., half-laughing half-crying messes we used to be so good at. He didn’t want to feel things. He wanted to manage them. And that’s not love. That’s not even life. That’s a product. And I’m not something you debug.

So I stopped explaining myself.

But anyway, that’s all ancient history now. Like, seriously, second semester freshman year level history. We’re talking fossilized, dig-it-up-with-a-toothbrush level old news. I’m halfway through junior year and, I swear, I’ve never been more okay with how my life is going. Like yeah, sure, I’ve got to swerve the occasional chip-head trying to beam serenity through their eyes like some kind of overmeditated cyborg. And don’t even get me started on the worst of them. I won’t say her name—not because I’m scared, but because she feeds off attention like a vampire with a social media addiction. You know who I mean. All black eyeliner and boot stomps, like she crawled out of a Hot Topic clearance bin and came to campus with a mission to glare people into submission. It’s honestly impressive, in a tragic goth Shakespeare villain sort of way.

This semester's gonna be different, like actually different, not just me saying it because I bought a new planner and acted like that suddenly made me organized. No, this time it's because Nathan Boone, yes, that Nathan, my ride-or-die since third grade, who has been my emotionally frazzled, introverted, walk-three-steps-behind-me-until-he's-ready-to-speak human blanket, finally transferred to NCSU for winter semester. I’ve been casually pressuring him to do this since like, I don’t know, sophomore year of high school, maybe earlier. And now he’s really here, walking around campus with his backpack zipped up to his chin like someone’s gonna quiz him on eye contact or seating charts at any moment. And if you don’t know who he is, that’s totally fine. Actually, it’s kind of better. He’s not here for a scene or validation or whatever. He’s here because he finally said yes to himself, and also, probably, because I’m here and he knows I’ll throw myself in front of whatever chaos tries to touch him. That’s the deal. Always has been.

Nathan overthinks everything. Like, actually everything. You know how some people walk into a room and just, like, exist? Yeah, not him. He walks in like it’s a pop quiz and he forgot to study. I swear, he’s calculating seating arrangements like he’s defusing a bomb. Where to sit, who’s gonna talk to him, how long is too long to make eye contact, should he smile, does his smile look normal, what if it doesn’t, what if he already messed up just by existing? People say he’s shy, which is hilarious, because shy is like, cute and blushing and biting your lip and stuff, and Nathan is full-blown survival mode. He’s scanning the whole damn room like he’s looking for exits in case it all goes sideways. And honestly? That’s brave. Because this world doesn’t exactly roll out the red carpet for people who pause before they speak or take two seconds to breathe before they move. Most people just bulldoze. Nathan doesn’t. He calculates. He survives.

He came here because he trusts me, which is kind of huge, honestly. Like, he didn’t just wake up one day and decide to transfer colleges for the vibes. He came because he’s a writer, a real one, and even though he second-guesses literally everything he puts on paper, I’ve read his stuff and it’s brilliant, like knock-the-air-out-of-your-lungs brilliant. And it kills me that he doesn’t see it yet, but maybe he’s starting to, and maybe being here is his way of giving the world a shot at seeing it too. And yeah, he still gets overwhelmed and overthinks where to sit and how to breathe in public without it becoming a whole internal drama, but I’ve got him. I always do. I walk next to him, I glare at the people who stare too long, I make dumb jokes to pull him back when I see him spiraling. He’s not here to be rescued. He’s here to show up, finally, and I’m just here to make sure no one ruins that for him before he even gets started.

If you see us and think you need to help—don’t. He’s not melting. He’s not lost. He’s just thinking. He’s just holding more in his head than most people know how to feel. He’s fireproof. He just needed a place to burn.

Now he has one.

Now onto how I cope. My super not-so-secret playlist. This is usually the part of the ritual where I turn the lights way down—like dramatic indie movie low—spark up a J of the good stuff, maybe throw on a sweater that smells like three past lives, and just kind of melt into the music until my brain quiets down enough to let me sleep. That’s the plan. That’s always the plan.

But not tonight, because, of course, Boone has summoned me for moral support. Again. And obviously I’m gonna show up—I mean, he’s my person. But also, like, could the universe chill for five seconds and let me have one night to vibe? Apparently not. His new roommate is... a lot. Like, capital A, A Lot. Big presence. Big everything. Real “I peak at alumni dinners” energy. I had lunch with them—twice now, because I’m generous and curious and mildly nosey—and this guy, I don’t even know what to do with him. He talks like he’s narrating a football documentary and laughs like the dining hall is his personal stage.

And, okay, I hate to admit this, but your girl is... intrigued. Which is stupid. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt actual butterflies and now they’re flapping around like idiots just because this guy smiled at me like he knew I wasn’t some random flake in a thrifted sweater. Like he actually saw me. Which is terrifying and kind of thrilling and maybe I need to sit down before I overheat.

Anyway, enough of that. A girl needs to compose herself.

If you made it all the way down here, then maybe some part of you gets it. Maybe you know what it’s like to be a little too loud, a little too much, to care way too hard about people who think in spirals and say nothing out loud unless they trust you. Maybe you’ve also cried into a burrito or lit incense for no reason or told yourself you were totally fine while lying on the floor in a cardigan that smells like someone else’s childhood home.

Maybe you’re messy too. If you are, good, stay that way.

The world needs more of us. The unpolished, the unfiltered, the ones who still feel everything and don’t apologize for it.

Okay. That’s all. I’m gonna go find Boone before he stress-hyperventilates over whether it’s weird to knock on his own dorm room door.

—Eve