Collecting cassettes is like adopting a bunch of tiny plastic pets that constantly remind you how old you’re getting, yet somehow make you feel impossibly cool—like a time-traveling DJ who refuses to update their Spotify. There’s the thrill of rewinding with a pencil (the original fidget spinner), the satisfying clunk when one slots into your Walkman like a key to a nostalgia portal, and the mysterious joy of finding that one mixtape labeled “Road Trip ’94” that turns out to be three Enya songs and your cousin whispering into the mic. It’s impractical, it’s fragile, it hisses at you—but hey, so do most of our best relationships.