The message about missed conversations and "what ifs" gets buried under 90 minutes of what feels like unedited diary entries and I found myself wanting to leave partway through. Random film/dated Death Cab for Cutie references, a lot of poop jokes, and a character sharing the playwright's own name reinforced the sense of personal catharsis over crafted and intentional theatre. Direction was predictable and bland, and I found the lead's dialogue was often hard to hear from my seat. Too many characters crowd out the central relationship, leaving two performers carrying weight the script doesn't earn. If deeply personal, melancholic work about creative insecurity is your thing, this may land better for you than it did for me.