One warm spring afternoon in 2015, I sat in the bleachers of The Harker School in San Jose, California with my best friend, who was then negotiating the terms of his impending long-distance relationship with his girlfriend. Magnified by the omnipresent backdrop of John Legend’s “All of Me” and the hormones of nostalgic teenagers, I spoke to him with the same oratory fervor I had recently seen from Tom Cruise during the final scene of Jerry Maguire. I promised, “You guys can totally make this work out. Atlanta to Chicago isn’t a long flight — you can see each other all the time.” Under the influence of soon-to-be-legalized medicinal inebriants and the clear ether of youth itself, I delivered my speech oblivious to the imminent scandals of college and with all the unironic conviction of an 18-year-old who thought The Killers were the greatest band of all time. The relationship crumbled in a matter of weeks — as these things usually do — once it turned out the flight from Atlanta to Chicago wasn’t as short or simple as it looked on Google Maps.