Population: One

I've always been terrible at reading maps, which probably should have been my first clue that working at a map shop was going to end badly. But Uncle Marvin's Craigslist posting said "Summer intern needed, must be good with people and comfortable with the unexplored." I figured he meant tourists asking for directions to Alcatraz

Meridian Maps & Curiosities squats between Chakra Yoga and Boba Dreams on Telegraph Avenue. The shop's narrow face peers out through windows so dusty they could qualify for archaeological study. The bell above the door whispers when I enter.

"Gwen!" Uncle Marvin materializes from behind a tower of atlases. His tea mug steams purple, which should have been the second clue. "Welcome to your cartographic education."

Right. I'm here to file paperwork and learn how to use the ancient cash register that probably accepts doubloons.

"Thanks for this opportunity, Uncle Marvin. I promise I'll be organized." I hoist my messenger bag higher, trying to project competence despite getting lost twice finding a shop on the street where I grew up.

"Organization is overrated, kiddo. What we're after here is navigation. Finding your way through uncharted territory."

He gestures around the shop, and I notice nothing here looks quite right. Maps cover every surface, but they're not AAA standard. These look hand-drawn on materials that definitely aren't paper. A few appear to be moving, but that's probably the espresso I mainlined on the way over.

"So what exactly do you do here? Besides sell maps to people who haven't discovered GPS?"

"We don't sell these maps." Marvin sets his mug on a counter crowded with compasses that point in directions I'm pretty sure don't exist. "These are specialty items. Emotional cartography. Mapping the terrain of the human heart."

"That's... metaphorical, right?"

"Is it?" His eyes twinkle with secrets. "Start by familiarizing yourself with inventory. Feel free to examine anything that calls to you."

He disappears into what I assume is a back room, leaving me alone with approximately three thousand maps.

I wander through the narrow aisles, trying to make sense of the organization system. There doesn't appear to be one.

The Map of Forgotten First Loves hangs next to something called The Atlas of Midnight Regrets.

That's when I see it.

The Map of the Unknowable Heart hangs by itself in an alcove near the back of the shop, illuminated by a shaft of sunlight. The parchment looks ancient but feels warm when I approach, drawn by something I can't name.

My phone buzzes. Text from Marcus.

Hey. I know things ended weird. Want to talk?

My fingers tighten around my iced vanilla latte. Three weeks. Three weeks since he decided he needed "space to find himself" before college, delivered via text while I was in the middle of my shift at the frozen yogurt place. Three weeks of pretending I was fine, that getting dumped by my first real boyfriend was actually a blessing in disguise.

I'm trying to craft a response when my phone slips. I lunge to catch it, bumping the cup with my elbow. The coffee arcs through the air in slow motion, a caffeinated comet headed straight for the most beautiful map in the shop.

“Noooooo…”

The latte hits the parchment with a splash that sounds oddly musical. I expect the map to dissolve, to see Uncle Marvin's trust in me literally dripping onto the floor. Instead, the coffee spreads across the surface without staining, forming patterns that pulse with warm golden light.

The map begins to redraw itself.

New coastlines emerge from the coffee spill, continents shifting and reforming. I watch my name appear at the center of what looks suspiciously resembling a heart-shaped island.

Gwen's Territory: Population Unknown.

"Uncle Marvin?" My voice comes out smaller than intended. "I think I broke something."

But Uncle Marvin doesn't answer, because I'm standing on a hill under a sky the color of confusion.

Well. This is either a very elaborate prank or I'm having the most specific nervous breakdown in history.

The landscape stretches in all directions, beautiful and impossible. A path winds down the hill, splitting into three directions marked by weathered signposts: Past, Present, and Future.

I take a cautious step forward. The air tastes faintly of vanilla latte and possibility. Overhead, those question mark clouds are gathering into what can only be described as an incoming weather system of second-guessing. A warm breeze carries the scent of all the texts I never sent, and somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles with the bass note of every argument I avoided having.

That's when the Map speaks.

Not speaks, exactly. The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, familiar in a way that makes my stomach clench with recognition. It sounds distinctly related to Marcus, but with the cadence of someone reading fortune cookies written by a philosophy major.

"Every journey begins with a single step, but most people spend so much time planning the route they never leave the parking lot."

I scan the landscape. The three paths stretch ahead, each promising different kinds of discomfort. Past meanders through what appears to be the Valley of What-Ifs, a depression in the landscape filled with pale light and the shapes of choices I didn't make. Present cuts straight across the Desert of Current Confusion, where heat mirages show me versions of myself I think I should be. Future disappears into the Ocean of Infinite Possibility, which sounds lovely until you realize oceans can drown you.

The question mark clouds are definitely getting closer, and I can hear the distinct sound of self-doubt beginning to precipitate. If I'm going to move, it needs to be now, before I get caught in a downpour of "What was I thinking?" and "Why did I even try?"

I head toward the Past path, because at least there I can pretend I understand what went wrong. The air grows warmer, tinged with the scent of Marcus's cologne and the particular brand of hope that comes with new relationships.

Perfect. A nostalgia-themed nature walk through my own poor judgment.

*******

The Valley of What-Ifs spreads before me in sedimentary layers of missed opportunities and better comebacks I thought of three days too late. The geology here follows emotional rather than physical laws, recent regrets sparkle near the surface, while older disappointments have compressed into dense strata.

I've been walking for what feels hours but might be minutes when I realize I'm carrying a shovel. Not metaphorically carrying. Actually holding a real shovel that appeared in my hands somewhere between "I should have texted him back faster" and "maybe if I'd worn the blue dress instead."

The Marcus-voice drifts down from somewhere above, helpful in the way that makes you want to throw things: "The answers you seek are buried in the layers of experience. But remember, archaeology requires patience."

"Archaeology requires tenure and a tolerance for dirt," I mutter, but I start digging anyway, because apparently even in my own emotional landscape I'm susceptible to peer pressure from disembodied voices.

The first layer comes up easily, loose soil mixed with text message screenshots and ticket stubs from movies I pretended to enjoy. Beneath that, compressed conversations about colleges and whether we were "serious enough" to try long distance. Deeper still, the fossilized remains of our first fight, carefully preserved in the amber of hurt feelings.

This is surprisingly therapeutic. Maybe Uncle Marvin is onto something with his hippie map therapy.

I'm three feet down when I hit something solid. Not rock, something that gives slightly under the shovel's pressure. I clear away the dirt with my hands, and uncover what appears to be a crystal: me, Marcus, and the exact instant I realized I was more excited about having a boyfriend than about having him specifically. The crystal pulses with uncomfortable truth.

The realization punches me in the chest: I'd been collecting relationship experiences the way some people collect vintage postcards. Not because I particularly wanted them, but because they seemed valuable.

The Marcus-voice sounds amused: "Fool's gold is still shiny, but it won't buy you anything real."

I keep digging, because stopping now would mean admitting that maybe I hadn't actually been heartbroken so much as embarrassed. The layers get older, stranger, crystallized daydreams about our imaginary future, fossilized conversations where I agreed with opinions I didn't actually hold, sedimentary deposits of all the times I modified myself to fit what I thought he wanted.

At the bottom of the pit, I find the real treasure: a moment I'd completely forgotten. Marcus and I at the museum, standing in front of a map collection, when he'd said something dismissive about people who "waste time on old things that don't matter anymore." I'd wanted to argue, to explain why I found historical cartography fascinating, but I'd smiled and agreed instead.

I'd buried my own interests to avoid conflict. In a relationship that lasted exactly four months.

The shovel in my hands begins to feel heavier, roots sprouting from the handle. The sides of the pit start closing in, soil that wants to become permanent, to plant me here among the archaeological evidence of my own poor choices.

I scramble up the sides of the pit, leaving the shovel to sprout into whatever kind of tree grows from buried regrets. The Valley of What-Ifs suddenly feels less mysterious and more claustrophobic, all those sedimentary layers pressing down with the weight of choices that seemed so important at the time.

The path back to the crossroads winds upward, and I can see the signposts ahead. Past, Present, Future. The question mark clouds have moved on, replaced by weather that looks suspiciously optimistic.

Time to try a different route. One that doesn't require excavation equipment.

*******

The Desert of Current Confusion stretches before me in rolling dunes of social media posts and internalized expectations. The sand shifts constantly, revealing and burying evidence of all the different versions of myself I think I should be.

The heat here doesn't feel physical, it’s the particular warmth that comes from trying too hard, from performing a life that looks good from the outside while having no idea what you actually want. Mirages shimmer in the distance, showing me Possible Gwens living their best lives: Pre-med Gwen with her color-coded study schedule, Art School Gwen with her perfectly curated Instagram aesthetic, Already-Has-Her-Life-Together Gwen who somehow figured out how to be seventeen without feeling constantly behind.

A sandstorm approaches from the east, and I can make out its composition: whirling fragments of college application essays where I claimed to be "passionate" about things I'd never actually tried, status updates carefully crafted to suggest a level of social confidence I definitely don't possess,

I need water, but every oasis I approach turns out to be another mirage showing me a different version of the life I think I'm supposed to want. The one where I'm pre-med dissolves when I remember that I faint at the sight of blood. Art School Gwen evaporates when I recall that my artistic ability peaked in middle school with reasonably good stick figures.

The sun beats down with the intensity of parental expectations and college admissions pressure. My throat feels raw from not admitting that I have absolutely no idea what I want to study, what I want to do, or who I want to become.

Maybe that's the problem. Maybe I've been so busy trying to want the right things that I never figured out what I actually want.

The thought feels dangerous, revolutionary. Admitting ignorance in a world that rewards confidence, acknowledging uncertainty when everyone else seems to have figured it out.

I try it out loud: "I have no idea what I want to major in, and that's fine."

The words feel foreign in my mouth, but not wrong. In the distance, something shifts in the desert landscape.

"I don't actually care about having the perfect college experience. I want to find out what interests me instead of what I think should interest me."

A spring bubbles up from the sand near my feet, clear water that tastes exactly as honesty, sharp, clean, a little bitter but ultimately refreshing.

"I was more in love with the idea of being in love than I ever was with Marcus, and our breakup is probably the best thing that's happened to me in months."

The spring becomes a stream, flowing in the direction of the crossroads. The mirages flicker and disappear, replaced by actual landscape features that look challenging but navigable.

Turns out honesty is the best GPS system. Who knew?

The stream leads back toward the signposts, but the desert doesn't feel hostile anymore. It's still hot, still challenging, but now it feels temporary rather than infinite.

One path left. Time to see what the future looks like when you stop trying to plan it.

*******

The Ocean of Infinite Possibility stretches to every horizon, water that shifts color with the light, sometimes blue, sometimes silver, occasionally the deep green of hope mixed with terror. No land in sight, no predetermined destination, just endless water and the distinct feeling that I'm supposed to build my own way across.

The shoreline behind me holds supplies that weren't there a moment ago: planks of honesty from the desert, rope woven from acceptance of uncertainty, a sail stitched together from all the conversations I finally had with myself instead of avoiding. The tools feel familiar in my hands, as if I've known how to build this raft all along.

The voice that speaks now is definitely mine, but older—the voice I might have in five years, or ten, or whenever I finally stop apologizing for taking up space in my own life:

"The ocean doesn't promise safe passage, but it promises passage. The only way to find out where you're going is to start moving."

Motivational, but not particularly helpful from a practical standpoint.

I start building anyway, because sitting on the shore analyzing the project isn't going to get me across the water. The planks fit together with surprising ease, joints that hold without nails, construction that follows intuitive rather than engineering principles.

As I work, the water laps at my feet with the rhythm of possibility. Each wave carries questions I've been avoiding: What if I choose wrong? What if I fail? What if I succeed and then realize I chose the wrong success?

But mixed with the worry, there's something else—excitement. The particular thrill that comes with heading into territory nobody's mapped for you, where you get to discover what's there instead of following someone else's route.

Maybe that's the point. Maybe the best adventures happen in the spaces between the marked paths.

The raft comes together quickly, a construction project that seems to build itself once I stop overthinking the process. The sail fills with wind that smells adventure and uncertainty in equal measure. I push off from the shore, leaving behind the landscape of what was and what should be for the open water of what might be.

The horizon remains stubbornly empty, but I'm no longer looking for land. I'm learning to navigate by internal compass, trusting that the ocean will show me where I need to go when I'm ready to see it.

Turns out heartbreak has tides. And I didn't bring a towel. But maybe that's okay, maybe getting a little wet is part of the journey.

*******

I'm back in the shop, standing exactly where I started, but everything has changed. The coffee cup is still falling—time stretched taffy-thin while I was wandering through my own emotional geography. I catch it before it hits the Map, which now shows completely different terrain.

The Unknowable Heart has been redrawn. New continents shaped by recent discoveries, mountain ranges that look challenging but climbable, oceans marked with current patterns and favorable winds. At the center, where the coffee spill created that heart-shaped island, my name appears in elegant script: "Gwen's Territory: Population One, Growing."

Uncle Marvin emerges from the back room as if he's been timing his entrance, carrying a fresh mug of tea that steams the color of satisfaction mixed with mild amusement.

"How was your first day?" he asks, settling behind the counter with the casual air of someone who regularly witnesses impossible things.

"Educational," I manage, setting my rescued coffee on the counter. "The inventory system is... unique."

"Unique is one word for it." Marvin's eyes twinkle with the particular joy of someone whose unconventional methods have produced the desired results. "You handled yourself well in uncharted territory. Most people panic when they realize the map is drawing itself around them."

"Uncle Marvin, what exactly do you do here?"

"I help people find their way," he says, which is probably the most honest answer I'm going to get. "The question is, would you interested in learning the trade? I could use a part-time cartographer. Someone who understands that the most interesting journeys happen off the marked trails."

My phone buzzes against my leg. Marcus, probably, still waiting for an answer to his text about talking. Three hours ago, I would have agonized over the response, crafted seventeen different versions before settling on something safely noncommittal.

Now I pull out my phone, scroll to his contact, and delete the entire conversation thread.

Some maps you don't need anymore.

"Yes," I tell Uncle Marvin, surprising myself with how certain I sound. "I'd love to learn emotional cartography."

I look back at the Map of the Unknowable Heart, at the new landscape that emerged from spilled coffee and unplanned adventures. The territory looks vast, complicated, occasionally treacherous, but it's mine. Hand-drawn, authentic, and finally honest about the geography of growing up.

I feel pretty good about my current coordinates. They're going to lead somewhere interesting.

Population: One. Growing.