We walked along the riverbank, smiling and nudging each other playfully, just like two little school kids. Why couldn’t our dreams stay simple? Why did we have to grow up like we did?



I still remember when you tried to hold my hand. I cringed and pulled it away, fidgeting with the zipper on my yellow sweater. It’s not that I didn’t want my fingers entwined with yours. I just panicked.



You would make me climb trees with you, despite how much I hated to. I huffed and puffed as you gave me a boost, and you laughed as I awkwardly steadied myself on a branch. You would sit across from me and tell me ridiculous stories and I foolishly listened to every word. Petals from tree blossoms tangled in my hair and you picked them out carefully and gently; I watched as they fluttered to the ground below us.



You carried me home on your back and my bare feet swept your side against your jeans. It’s silly how I remember these little things now. Why didn’t I think about them before? You took the long way home and we exchanged very few words as I slipped in and out of consciousness against your shoulder. You laid me on the grass just down the road from my house and you made me look at stars with you for hours and hours. But without your knowledge, I looked at you instead.



Why couldn’t our dreams stay simple? Why did we have to grow up like we did?