The Message Keira Chen

Hush. Breathe for a second, and keep watching. It hurts. You listen anyways. The kids wander to their parents, sitting peacefully in the pavilion's shade, and complain about being hungry. But there is no real hunger, no real want. Just two kids enjoying life, before they knew any better. Do you remember? What it was like, being so carefree? Do you remember, when you were young and happy and oh so satisfied? Do you remember? I wish I did. I wish I didn't.

Open your eyes. You do, and face plain grey walls. A potted plant, bought who-knows-when, wilts in the corner. (When was the last time you watered it?) The dishwasher drones on in the background, a steady woosh, swoosh, woosh, while the sink drips maddeningly like usual—you should get that fixed, should've gotten it fixed weeks ago.

Do you remember? A name rises to the forefront of your mind. You can't remember the shape of their smile, or the way their eyes lit up at the mention of sweets, or their delicate care while baking—as opposed to your awkward clumsiness in the kitchen. But their name...you could never forget their name. That's good. Remember the good things. Your hand twitches, and you stare at the phone clutched in your calloused fingers. It's cracked and beaten, chipped on the side from your high school days. There's a niggling idea taking root— their number is still saved. You haven't looked at it since freshman year, but it's there. It's always there. Take a chance?

Idly, you wonder if they still remember you. If they still

remember the love, the hate, the sorrow you had shared. If they still think of back then.

And sometimes I wonder what I was, then, you muse. You open the messages app and scroll through old contacts, settling on one in particular. And sometimes I wonder…

You read your message one last time. ...what I was to you. You hit send.