She Turned Twenty-Four and I’m Still Ruined

Keira Knightley turned 24 today, and I remain as hopelessly, embarrassingly in love with her as I’ve been for years. There’s a particular uselessness to having a crush on someone that famous—functionally irrational, apparently permanent, zero upside.

She was in cinemas around this time with The Duchess—period costume, powdered wigs, cheekbones sharp enough to open letters—which, if you needed further evidence that she’s objectively untouchable, there it was. A short film of hers was supposedly on the way too, which I told myself I was interested in for artistic reasons.

Don’t anyone dare say anorexia.