ugh

iii.

2011

My fingers trace over the coin. It feels cold and empty under my touch,

but when I close my eyes, I can see a distant memory.

She had given this to me, when I had lent her my pencil. She was strange and funny, and very popular. It was amazing that I was on good terms with her, when I could barely utter a word without stumbling. 

Another popular boy who had lent her an eraser and received the same, identical, coin

{yet it wasn't the same at the same time}

and placed it back in her hand, scolding her gently that it was unnecessary.

I wanted to do the same - it was silly, and not needed. We were friends, after all. Friends do not take money over such simple things. 

Yet when I was approaching her seat, my words died at my throat and I held tight to the coin. And I never returned it, even though it wasn't needed.

But in my eyes, it was proof of our friendship, a proof that she once talked to me, and that I had actually e x i s t e d.

Opening my eyes, I return to reality and the coin is still cold,

though slightly warmer than before.