There he was, standing before me after five years of wondering how he’s been, who he’s been with, and if I had ever crossed his mind.

His short haircut transformed to one similar to mine—long cascading waves. There was only one difference: he had pink highlights. His smile was the same though; it was the same smile that I wanted to kiss when I was merely 11 years old. But this time, his lips were coated in bright red lipstick. The t-shirts and khaki capris he wore when we were kids gave way to a tight mini-dress meant to accentuate his almost non-existent curves.

As I walked closer and closer to him, I watched him talk to a group of tall, flat-chested girls with abnormally broad shoulders. When he laughed, he bashfully hid his smile behind his hand. When he spoke, his voice strained as he tried to speak an octave higher. When he stood, he shifted his weight from one hip to the other.

I was so close now that I could narrow the distance between us with three wide steps, but I hesitated. They were all so beautiful: each carried themselves with class, elegance, and confidence. They were sure of themselves; their search for identity resolved long ago.

I took a deep breath and finally closed the distance between us.

“Alejandro,” I began. “Remember me?” My heart fluttered when the young boy I had once known and loved flipped his hair in my direction.

“Just call me Alex,” she said.


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