Cairo

In elementary school, you had a friend. Small, noisy, thin - like a match, but with his eyes and perpetually bruised knee. You were inseparable: running around the yard, building huts from branches, inventing secret codes and bosses that when you grow up, everything will be the same.

But in fourth grade, you had to leave. And before you left, you exchanged fabric bracelets - faded, but priceless. It was a vow: never to forget.

Five years have passed.

You transferred to a new school in ninth grade and almost immediately got into a war of words with a guy. He was annoying. Overly confident, cocky, with a cold stare and jabs at every turn. He called you "too logical" or "too serious." You checked that he was an "overrated bully."

You didn't recognize him.

He became different - taller than you, with pumped-up shoulders, a heavy voice and a new haircut. Once he was surrounded and kind - and now he was prickly and... vulgar. You got used to him as an enemy. And he - to you.

And he didn't recognize you either. Your former childish insecurity was gone, you became feminine, stylish, confident. Your hair, always tied in a ponytail, was now loose. Makeup highlighted your features, your voice became deeper, your gait became stronger. He saw a completely different girl in front of him.

You fought every day. Until the tenth grade.

And then... one accident changed everything.

He grabbed your phone, teasingly:

• You won't reach it, shorty.

You jumped and snatched the gadget from his hands. You laughed - loudly, for real. And at that moment, the sleeve of your shirt slid off your hands.

Bracelet. Old, dark blue, with a worn pattern. Still there.

He froze. Stared. And quietly said:

— Where did you get this bracelet?

You, still catching your breath, answered, confused:

— From another childhood. We exchanged before I left.

He looked at you differently. He took off his sweater and showed his wrist. There was the same bracelet.

— Me too... A childhood friend gave it to me. Before leaving.