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If we were kids, we could have held hands; his left hand in my right and our fingers locked without giving each other any hint of attachment of some sort. We’ll just hold hands for the comfort of it and nothing more. But kids we are not. Summer had just begun and it felt like it will be over very soon.

His name is Roelle John and he could have easily passed for my brother, only, I don’t feel much like a sister to him. That is perhaps why we couldn’t hold hands. Not while walking under the biggest mahogany trees of high school, not while the sunlight slid through the thick canopy and certainly not at a time that we were about to part.

“I like summer,” I heard him said. I don’t know if the world or our pace slowed down. It’s just that I became suddenly aware of my own breathing and hearing it for the first time scared me. There seemed to be a loud thumping somewhere but its source was so distant I can still hear the mahogany leaves crunch under our school shoes.

I didn’t, well, I can’t say a thing. He seemed to have waited for a word but nothing came out my mouth. Two possibilities, either I went mute or went dumb. So he continued storytelling and I completely heard all of it but only processed ten percent. It was so hard being there with him and to bear with the stress, I kicked stones every now and then.

“You’re not listening.”

Finally, he got the message. I didn’t want to talk really. I didn’t care to listen. Kicking another stone, I tried explaining. I can’t remember what I said but it surely switched off his talking mode.

“You’re saying goodbye,” he almost laughed that out, bitterly, I guess. He stopped walking while I continue to make little steps, making just enough distance between us. It felt like so symbolic I could have filmed the whole affair.

“I promise to come back.”It really sounded like a promise only I was quite not in the mood for that.

“Well, I don’t expect you to,” I said without blinking. I really hoped he’ll figure out that it’s a damn lie but I know he won’t.

If we were kids, he could have picked some stone and throw it on me and I should have all the reason in the whole, wide, world to cry. I could have loved that. Cry. But kids we were not.

It has been eight years since that day. Once again, the mahogany leaves spilled on the path walk, on the gravel road, everywhere. I was in another place in a more recent time and it was the beginning of summer. He had a different name and I was a different person. We took what seemed to be a long walk under old trees, while the afternoon sunlight slid through the canopy. It was a similar goodbye and I shall tell it in another story.