Natasha, aka Nats, my 19-year-old Gen Z neighbour stormed into my home. She was on fire, she was fuming, she was furious, but amidst all the flames and brimstone, there were tears — tears that seemed to stem out of helplessness and hopelessness.

“Sup Nats, hello, do I dare ask what’s up, how are you, where have you been, on a sabbatical? On a spiritual journey? Are you sad,” I asked, guardedly.