Two Reviews, One Year

They treated it like a party trick—something to break the ice and reduce the nerves. It seemed like every app had a year end review—music, fitness, financial, AI. Data wrapped in confetti.

June balanced her phone on her knee with one finger. "Okay," she said, thumb hovering over the button. "Moment of truth."

Across the couch, Mara made a dramatic drumroll on an empty popcorn bowl. "If mine says 'Congratulations, you spent 400 hours staring into the void,' I'm suing."

June smiled, but it came out thinner than she meant. Outside, the last week of December pressed its cold face against the apartment windows, the city all bundled up and busy pretending the year had been tidy.

Mara leaned in, shoulder to shoulder with her, the way they'd done since they were kids—two heads together over the same book, the same secret, the same plan.

"Ladies first," Mara said.

June tapped.

Her screen exploded into bright confetti. A little animation. A little music. The app served up her year in review like a glossy brochure.

Your Year, Reviewed

It was… flattering. Not the whole truth, but the kind of truth you could post without explaining yourself. Mara lifted her eyebrows. "Look at you. A human Swiss watch. "June shrugged like it didn't matter. Like she hadn't been quietly craving proof that her life was moving in the right direction. Like she wasn't hungry for a neat story.

"Okay, okay," Mara said. "Now mine. Prepare yourself."

Mara tapped.

Confetti again. But the numbers that followed felt like someone had dumped a kitchen junk drawer onto the screen.

Your Year, Reviewed:

Mara stared at it for a beat, face frozen in the half-smile she wore when she didn't want anyone to worry. Then she snorted. "Well. The void and I have been busy."

June laughed, but the laugh got snagged and came out strange. It wasn't the numbers. It was the way the numbers made her feel. June had always been the steady one. The planner. The one who remembered birthdays without being reminded. Mara had always been the comet—bright, fast, fleeting, leaving trails.

For a second June could feel that old, exhausted thought rising in her chest: Why is it always like this? Why do I have to be the adult?

And then—because she was tired and because the app had handed her a tidy narrative—June said the worst possible thing in the calmest possible voice. "Mara," she began, like she was choosing her words carefully, "do you… want to talk about any of this? Like, for real? Because this seems… intense."

Mara's eyes flicked up. Not angry. Just suddenly far away. The drumroll energy had drained out of her.

"It's not—" Mara started, then stopped. She pressed her phone screen dark with her thumb. "It's fine. It's just… a year. An app. A stupid thing.”

June could have let it go. That's what polite people do. But June didn't let it go, because she loved her sister and because something in her was tired of the invisible distance that had been growing between the past two years.

"It doesn't look fine," June said, softer now. "It looks like… you didn't sleep for twelve months."

Mara's mouth twitched. "I slept. I just slept in… fragments."

June waited.

Mara's gaze dropped to her own phone, to the dark screen as if the light was too bright. When she spoke again, her voice had that careful steadiness people use when honesty is judging when to show itself.

"It's Evan's mom," she said.

June blinked. "Denise?"

Mara nodded once. "She's been in and out of the hospital since February. First it was 'we need to run a few tests.' Then it was 'we're pretty sure.' Then it was 'we're sorry.'"

June felt the air change in the room—a coldness had descended.

Mara kept going, words now, finally, like the honest thing had been waiting all year for this moment. "Evan's been… wrecked," she said. "And Denise is… she's stubborn. She's funny. She hates the hospital and she's scared and she tries not to show it and then she does show it and—"

Mara let out a breath that had been held too long. "So we did what you do," she said, and there was a flash of bitterness there, not at June but at the universe. "We showed up. We drove. We sat in chairs that were designed by someone who hates spines. We learned a whole new language made of acronyms and waiting."

June's eyes drifted back to the review, to the neat little bullet points that pretended they were the whole story. Mara flipped her phone in her hands once, then unlocked it again—not to the confetti, but to her messages.

"I'll show you," she said.

June didn't realize she'd been holding her own breath until she exhaled.

Mara opened a thread labeled Denise (❤️) and scrolled.There were dozens—hundreds—of small messages that weren't dramatic enough to make a movie montage but were devastating in their meaning:

We're heading in now.

She's sleeping.

Doctor says tomorrow.

Can you grab us socks? Real socks, not hospital socks.

She's asking if you can come by after work.

We're back in the ER.

It's okay. We're here.

June stared at the thread like it was a diary written in a foreign language. Mara clicked into her photo roll and showed June a picture she'd taken without thinking. Denise sat upright in a hospital bed, hair pulled into a loose knot, IV pole at her side like an awkward dance partner. She was smiling—actually smiling—and her lips were a ridiculous, defiant red.

"What—“ June began, because the lipstick was so unmistakably Denise. Like a flag planted in enemy territory.

Mara's smile wobbled. "She keeps a little tube in her purse. Even when she can barely lift her arm, she'll ask me to 'help her look like a person.'"

June felt her throat tighten. "She wore that… in the ER?"

"Oh yeah," Mara said. "She said, 'If I'm going to be miserable, I can at least look like a princess.'"

June pressed her fingers against her lips, like she could hold herself together that way.

"I didn't know it was that bad," June managed.

Mara gave a small laugh that wasn't funny. "I didn't want you to know. You've got your life. Your… Swiss-watch calendar."

June flinched.

Mara looked back at the review. "So yeah. My review thinks I'm a delivery-app goblin who lives at a hospital and watches videos at 2 a.m. And I guess… it's not wrong. It just doesn't know why behind the what."

June stared at her own review, still shining politely on her screen. It looked clean. It also looked lonely. Because if she was honest, her "good year" had been built out of something too. Not caretaking. Avoidance.

She hadn't just been meditating and lifting weights. She'd been building walls.

"Mara," June said, voice small, "can I tell you something without you making a joke first?"

Mara's eyes softened. "I'll try. No promises."

June searched for words that didn't sound dramatic, and failed. “I think I've been… optimizing," June said, "because it's easier than admitting I'm scared."

"Scared of what?"

June looked down at her hands. "Of being needed. Of messing up. Of… life being messy and not having a system for it."

She let out a breath. "And maybe," she added, the truth tasting strange, "I've been afraid that if I don't keep moving, I'll have to feel how alone I've been."

Mara's face did something quiet and heartbreaking—like she recognized the shape of that fear. "June," she said gently, "your review doesn't show the nights you didn't text anyone because you didn't want to bother them. Or how hard you work to be a success.”

June's eyes stung. "Yeah."

Mara nudged her shoulder with hers—twin language, old as them. "Okay," she said. "So. The apps are… partial witnesses."

June gave a little laugh. "They're the worst kind. Confident. Loud. Missing context."

Mara nodded. "But they did… catch something."

June glanced at Mara's review again—at the late nights, the maps, the messages, the hospital cafeteria searches.

"They caught that you showed up," June said.

Mara blinked fast. "And they caught that you… survived."

They sat there for a moment with the quiet between them, not empty now—just honest. Outside, the city kept counting down toward a new year. June took her phone and, on impulse, opened her notes app. She typed one line and turned the screen toward Mara.

Next year, we track the right thing.

Mara read it. Then, without asking permission, she took June's phone and added a second line underneath.

Not in an app. But with each other.

June felt something unclench in her chest. Mara picked up her own phone and did something that made June's heart lurch—she hit "share" on her review, but not to social media. She sent it to June.

"There," Mara said. "Now you're officially part of my mess."

June smiled. "Good."

Mara leaned back on the couch and stared at the ceiling, eyes bright.

"Hey," she said. "After work… will you come with us tomorrow? Denise likes you. She says you have 'steady eyes.'"

June didn't even hesitate. "Yeah," she said. "Of course."

Mara exhaled as if she'd been holding something up alone and finally set it down. The confetti animation on both screens had long ago faded into darkness.

And June realized, with a sudden clarity that felt like stepping outside into cold air, that the new year wasn't asking her to become someone else. It was asking her to show up where the story was actually happening. Tomorrow, they would walk into the hospital together—no confetti, no summary—just the year as it really was. The two of them, together.

Written by M.Lee Davenport—with AI as a sidekick in drafting and revision.

Based on the article: An algorithmic event: The celebration and critique of Spotify Wrapped