Memory does not arrive honestly.
It arrives bathed in light, its edges softened, its violence disguised as warmth.
The school courtyard glowed the way only late summer can manage—sunlight filtered through the canopy of trees, gilding the dust in the air, stretching shadows until they resembled something poetic rather than ominous. Laughter spilled through the open gates in careless waves. Shoes scraped against concrete. Conversations overlapped, indistinct, weightless.
At fourteen, we believed time was generous.
I stood just beyond the gate, hands tucked into my pockets, posture relaxed by habit rather than comfort. Lucy, Ella, and Nina formed a loose arc in front of me; Henry and Lucas hovered close enough to be implicated, far enough to pretend neutrality. It was a familiar geometry—one I would later recognize as a hierarchy masquerading as friendship.
Lucy tilted her head, arms folding with deliberate precision. Her curiosity was never innocent; it was a blade dulled only enough to pass as teasing.
"Lilith, who are you waiting for?"
I remember smiling then. Not the controlled expression I learned later, but something unguarded, almost foolish. The kind of smile one offers without calculating the cost.
"I'm waiting for Mily."
The name felt clean in my mouth. Lucy's did not.
Her lips curved, not upward but inward, as though the thought itself displeased her. Disdain flickered in her eyes—brief, practiced.
"Let me guess—she's the sweet, innocent type? How boring."
Ella laughed softly, chin lifting, as if elevation granted authority.
"Yeah, she's boring. Always surrounded by books."
Nina threw her head back, laughter loud and performative.
"I think she even eats books for breakfast!"
Their laughter braided together—sharp, unrestrained. The sound pressed against my ears, intrusive, evaluative. Henry and Lucas exchanged glances, discomfort leaking through their silence like a poorly sealed container.
I looked down at my hand.
My fingers were curling inward, slow, deliberate. Not rage—calculation.
Pressure applied without spectacle.
Ella was still laughing, oblivious to the subtle shift she had failed to register.
"For dinner too—hahahaha!"
I exhaled. The sound was controlled, measured. My smile disappeared—not dramatically, but decisively. When I looked up, I could feel the temperature drop behind my eyes.
"I think studying is better than fucking and sucking dicks like a bitch," I said, my voice level, precise.
"Am I right, Ella?"
Silence did not fall—it shattered.
Shock froze their faces in grotesque variations. Ella's mouth opened, sound attempting to form.
"You bas—!"
I cut her off, draping my arms over Henry's and Lucas's shoulders, my tone deliberately light, almost jovial.
"Bro, did you hear about that girl from our class?" I said, laughing. "She got dumped the same day she got into a relationship."
I turned my gaze to Nina, locking it there, unblinking.
"How pathetic is that? Hahaha!"
The boys laughed—forced, brittle. They knew the script but not their lines. Lucy, Ella, and Nina clenched their hands. Lips trembled. The power had shifted; arrogance had curdled into something closer to fear.
That was when I saw her.
Mily approached from a distance, backpack slung over her shoulders, steps slow with exhaustion. Her face was pale, the kind of pallor that comes from endurance rather than illness. She had always looked like someone who carried weight quietly.
Lucy noticed her before I did. Her voice cooled instantly.
"That Mily isn't even worthy of you."
I turned instinctively.
"Mily…"
The word softened as it left me. Relief, unguarded again.
She froze.
Her eyes widened—not in surprise, but recognition. She saw me standing there, laughing with them. Not the context. Not the threat. Only the image.
Her expression collapsed with devastating efficiency.
She turned away.
Then she ran.
The sound of her footsteps—irregular, panicked—followed her retreat. I shouted her name, my voice cracking through the space between us.
"MILY!"
I chased her, but distance is a cruel thing. It expands when you need it least.
I stopped.
Slowly, I turned back toward Lucy. My reflection in her eyes disturbed even me.
"Listen carefully," I said, my voice low, precise.
"If you ever say a word about Mily…"
"If you ever harm her…"
I paused. Not for effect—for honesty.
"I don't even know what I'll do to you. So stay away from her."
They trembled. Not dramatically. Visibly.
Then I ran again.
Mily reached her house and slammed the door behind her. The sound echoed—final, absolute.
I bent over outside, hands braced against my knees, lungs burning.
"Damn… Mily… how can you run so fast…"
I stood before her door, pressing my palm flat against it, as though proximity could translate into absolution.
"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry, Mily. It was a misunderstanding…"
Silence answered.
Then, faintly, from within—
"I'm sorry too, Lilith…"
Relief spread through me like a drug administered too quickly.
"I don't know why you're apologizing," I said. "Okay… take your time. We'll talk tomorrow."
I walked away believing the matter deferred, not decided.
Morning light is less forgiving than dusk. I stood outside her house, waiting. Time passed. I rang the doorbell.
"Mily's caught a cold," her mother said. "High fever."
I asked to see her. I was refused. I nodded, obediently.
Days passed. Absence accumulated. Her desk remained empty. Then she left on vacation.
Two weeks later, I stood in the corridor, drinking water, explaining her absence as though it were trivial.
Lucy approached. Asked to talk.
I walked past her without acknowledgment.
Then I saw Mily. I approached eagerly. Spoke too brightly.
"Hey, Mily! When did you come back from vacation?"
She saw me.
She ran.
This time, there was no misunderstanding left to hide behind.
I stood still. My hand dropped.
"I made a huge mistake," I thought.
"I'm not worthy of being her friend."
A tear struck my shoes—an undignified punctuation.
"She didn't even look at me properly… I hurt her."
Henry touched my shoulder. I pulled away.
I walked toward the up stairs of rooftop. Not because I wanted height—
but because some realizations require distance to be understood.
That was the moment the memory rewrote itself.
Not as cruelty inflicted by others—
but as damage I had sanctioned,
mistaking control for protection,
and silence for forgiveness.
The school rooftop was never meant to be occupied.
It existed as an architectural afterthought—concrete without intention, elevation without dignity. The wind moved freely there, indifferent, unimpeded by walls or etiquette. It scraped across my skin with utilitarian cruelty, as if testing whether I still belonged among the living.
I sat in the corner, back pressed against the low barrier, knees drawn in, posture collapsed into something unrecognizable. Sound escaped me in uneven fragments—ugly, involuntary. The kind of sobbing that bypasses pride entirely.
I buried my face, not to hide from the world, but to compress it—to reduce the vastness of consequence into something smaller, more survivable.
"I'm sorry, Mily…"
The words fell out of me without structure.
"I'm so sorry…"
Apologies are useless once the damage has completed its work. They are artifacts—evidence of awareness, not repair.
My phone rang.
The vibration against the concrete felt invasive. I did not move. The phone rang again, insistently, as though urgency could manufacture relevance.
I answered on the third ring. My voice did not sound like mine.
"Yes…?"
There was crying on the other end. Not restrained. Not dignified. The sound of a man whose function had always been composure, now stripped of it.
"Sir… come home…"
A pause. A fracture.
"Your mother… is no more."
The world did not collapse.
That is the most misleading part.
My eyes widened, not in disbelief, but recalibration. My heart began to strike against my ribs with mechanical violence—an engine revving without purpose.
In that moment, grief did not arrive as sorrow.
It arrived as confirmation.
Loss, I realized dimly, does not queue. It stacks.
***
The changing room was sterile, fluorescent-lit, stripped of intimacy by design. Metal lockers lined the walls like silent witnesses—functional, anonymous, incapable of discretion.
Mily stood facing Lilith.
Tears traced unchecked paths down her face, her composure dissolving without resistance. She did not bother to hide it. Whatever restraint she had once learned had been abandoned at the threshold.
Her thoughts narrowed, collapsing inward until only one remained.
Is this really Lilith…?
He said her name softly, as though testing its legitimacy.
"Mily."
She stepped closer. The door shut behind her with a mechanical finality.
Lilith's body responded before his mind did—muscles tightening, spine straightening. Instinct recognized enclosure.
Mily reached for his face, fingers trembling, touch uncertain yet insistent.
"Lilith… it's really you?"
He caught her hand, anchoring it between them.
"Yes… it's me." A pause, measured. "But why are you here?"
She did not answer. Instead, she closed the distance and wrapped her arms around him, holding him with a desperation that ignored context and consequence alike.
"I hate you…" Her voice fractured. "I hate you so much…"
Her grip tightened. "Why did you leave me alone?!"
Lilith did not move. The accusation landed without ceremony, heavy and precise.
She pulled back abruptly, as though embarrassed by proximity.
"How are you, Lilith?"
He reached up and wiped her tears with a care that bordered on reverence.
"I'm fine… how are you?"
Even as she cried, he registered the familiar symmetry of her face, the unchanged softness. The observation came unbidden, unhelpful.
She whispered, almost to herself, "I thought I lost you forever."
He did not respond. Silence, here, carried more weight than reassurance ever could.
She struck his chest weakly, once, then again—gestures devoid of force but rich in accusation.
"Do you hate me that much?!"
Her voice rose, cracked. "You didn't even look at me when you left!"
Her strength gave out. She collapsed against him, breath uneven, body slack.
He lifted her face, wiping her tears with deliberate slowness.
"It's not like that…" His voice remained controlled. "I could never hate you."
She smiled faintly, the expression fragile, transient.
"I missed you so much."
Confusion crossed his face—not performative, but genuine.
"But… why are you here?"
Before she could answer, a voice echoed from beyond the door.
"Is anyone inside?"
Panic sharpened Mily's movements. Calculation replaced grief instantly.
If someone sees me here… it'll be a disaster.
She seized Lilith's hand and pulled him behind the lockers, forcing them into a narrow gap where space ceased to exist as a concept. Their bodies were pressed unavoidably close—breath shared, heat exchanged without consent.
The watchman entered, footsteps measured, eyes scanning.
"No one here?"
Lilith leaned closer, whispering urgently, "Mily, what's happening?"
"I'll explain," she murmured back, words stumbling over themselves. "Just—please stay quiet."
The voice came again, louder this time.
"Is anyone here?!"
Lilith shifted slightly, instinctively seeking distance.
"Mily, can you—"
She did not let him finish. She grabbed his collar and kissed him spontaneously—sudden, decisive, erasing the sentence before it could exist.
The moment fractured time.
Not because of intimacy—
but because it confirmed what neither of them had been willing to articulate:
Some mistakes do not remain in the past.
They wait—
patiently—
until repetition feels inevitable.