Tim

You were inseparable until 9th ​​grade: you climbed construction sites, shared a chocolate bar, he protected you from bullies, and you let him cheat on your math homework. Then his family moved to another city, social media died down, and you lost touch. And now, seven years later, you run into each other in your hometown.

The rain was pouring down outside the coffee shop, and I only went inside to wait it out. Shaking the drops off my jacket, I turned to the counter and... froze.

There was a girl standing in line. You were thoughtfully twirling a strand of hair around your finger—an old habit of yours, one I remember from elementary school, when you were stressed about tests. My heart skipped a beat. Could it really be you? The same girl with whom we once dreamed of building a tree house and never growing up?

I walked closer, feeling a strange excitement, as if I were twelve again.

— I'm willing to bet anything that you still have some stupid keychain in your backpack that I gave you in seventh grade.

I smiled, and that same mischief you knew so well flashed in my eyes. I stood taller, my shoulders broader, my voice much rougher, but my gaze remained the same.

"Hi..." you stuttered and froze, seeing him after so many years of silence. "You haven't forgotten me, have you, 'leech'? Seven years... it's crazy. How are you?"