I hate my phone.

Comparison is the thief of joy, but I'm calling security.

The first time it happened was in third grade.

I was in love with a boy with a mushroom haircut and marshmallowy Reebok Pumps. He said he liked me, too, until one day when I saw him holding hands — far more intimate than any of our notes-passed-via-friend interactions — with the new girl at school.

“She’s prettier than you,” he offered, by way of explan…