Neither

We met in Munich—Hannah, Caro, me, brownies, strawberry milkshakes—with one actual question on the table: which of the two interns we’d been running since March was staying. We’d spent weeks throwing Wenke and Max at things to see how they handled them, watched closely, and now we owed them a decision.

Wenke brought a lot to the table: real insider knowledge of how the music industry operates at its worse edges, a natural gift for making herself the gravitational center of a room, and an easy, uncomplicated relationship with her own body that tends to make writing more interesting. Max was the opposite argument—unhurried, precise with language, the sort of person who makes women lose their train of thought without appearing to try. Different appeals. Neither obviously wrong.

We chose neither. Not because anything had gone badly—it hadn’t—but because fit isn’t the same thing as competence, and we couldn’t honestly say either of them was the exact right shape for what this journal is trying to be. Saying no to people you’ve grown genuinely fond of over several months has a specific discomfort that dessert mitigates only partially. We ate the brownies anyway.

Both of them will find their places. When either starts something regular of their own, I’ll say so. And if you think you were built for this particular corner of the internet—if you have genuine things to say about games, music, fashion, or whatever else you’ve been circling—get in touch. We’re done going out to look for people. Being found suits us better.