“I don’t know how it reminded me of you. I’ve taken that street home a dozen times before but today was the first time it sparked an image of us, a memory of a day so bright I can’t believe I’d forgotten about it. Must be one of those things you’re not meant to remember until you’re ready, until you stop feeling the same way about the people in it. Hardly felt like a memory to me. It was July, right before sophomore year, and we’d only been friends for a few weeks at best. You were growing your hair out. I remember the frizzy curls trying to push through despite the sweat on your forehead. July in southern California is not kind, I’ll tell you that. You were teaching me how to longboard. I was trying to learn while you were trying not to laugh, and we both did try our best, but I still ended up with skinned palms and a good bruise on one knee. Alright, you told me, new plan. So I stood on the front of the board and you planted one foot on the back, and I put my arms out like Rose and thought, this is the closest thing to romance a girl can get. But it never was romantic. School started. You moved across town. And we haven’t talked in almost three years now. I said it once, but it’s true. It didn’t feel like a memory. I don’t know why I thought of you. I guess we don’t get to pick and choose the ones who stay.”
— to the boy I halfway dated
