I remember when I first met you. There you were. You were crying uncontrollably. It was your first day of kindergarten and you were scared shitless. Then you told me the white crescents on my fingernails were called ‘moons’ and grew/shrank based on how much milk one drank. I knew we were friends from that moment.
You and I hung out a little bit.
The third grade we had the same shitty teacher who hated us. Your friends were my friends. My friends were your friends. We began to hang out more and more. We sat next to each other in class.
My parents hated you. They told nine-year old me things like ‘one day that kid will die of a drug overdose. His body will be destroyed there won’t be anything left. All that will be left is a tiny piece of him, like a smudge of an experiment gone wrong.’
