I remember the rain, heavy on our umbrellas,
the scent of wet earth as we walked,
silent, yet knowing.
You handed me the slippers first,
a small kindness that opened a password door in my heart.
In our classroom filled with murmurs and pages turning,
you sat in the last row,
your glasses catching the fluorescent light and time,
your hairband keeping time with your movements
You were a tomboy, you said,
but to me, you were softer than the world allowed.
A quiet building, an empty hallway,
fries shared between words that meant everything and nothing
The pull of something unspoken
led us up the stairs, past the classrooms where fans hummed
to a moment that rewrote us.
Afterward, we laughed in daylight,
separate yet tangled,
our conversations shifting between equations and longing.
You had friends; I had you in the quiet.
And then time carried us away,
first to different cities, then to different lives.
You reappeared in pixels and midnight messages,
a voice from the past steadying me in my new world
But distance is a slow tide,
pulling even the strongest memories apart
I spoke too much, stupidly shared too much, or maybe just enough,
and you drifted again,
this time with no promise of return.
Now, I hold you in flashes
the rain, the fries, the hush of a stairwell,
the echo of a name I can no longer address.
