“I’m not scared.”
“Neither am I.”
I took a bite of ice cream from the spoon and handed it to her. She slid the spoon into her mouth and handed it back to me. My turn. And just like that, we made it official without slitting our wrists and smearing our blood in a tightly gripped hand shake.
Somehow, we were convinced that we were related and adopted by our so-called parents. Her with her tan skin and me with my semi-freckled cheeks. Somehow, we were convinced that it must’ve meant something for us both to be living in the same area, just a street away from each other. We thought about the uncanny fact that both our fathers loved wine and that they both visited this wine shop no one else seemed to enter. And to top it off, we both hated egg yolks. It was, therefore, only natural to assume that it was more than our brothers who had brought us together; it was fate. 


Years later, she says “imagine talking to your boyfriend like this.”
I’m sitting on top of the toilet lid, staring at my hands and patiently waiting for her to finish taking a shower.
“It’d be perfect!” I  smile to myself.
We then resolve that we’d date each other if either one of us was a guy, and it’s a reassuring thought.


Some time between then and now, we’re sitting on high stools with a plate of food between us, waiting for the light to dim, talking about our future children and how we would be the best god-mothers to each other’s children, spoiling them in ways we wouldn’t let ourselves with our own.
“Not many people have a best friend”, she says.
And I think they’re hard to find. 


People come and go. But if anything, I am thankful for the parts of me that have come from her.


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