1. So, A Table For Two? 

I’ve discovered that the older one gets, the longer you’ll feel as though you’ve been committing acts of involuntary fraudulence. I’m sixteen when I start wondering when I’ll get caught. Eighteen is when I begin looking at life in retrospect. Twenty-one and I think I’ll be stuck in hiding forever. 

Are you supposed to feel stronger with all your past selves layered on one another? It feels more exhausting than anything. As though everyone is trying to claw themselves out, leaving you ravaged and torn. 

2. Can I Start You Off With Some Drinks?

Two waters should be fine. My childhood best friend is sitting across from me, unrecognizable but in attendance. The waiter does not know this. We could be anyone, and that is a very exciting prospect to me. Perhaps we're a pair of thieves who have known each other for years. Maybe we’re long term rivals who don’t know how to exist without the other. We could even be lousy weekend hookups that only met the night before, who figured they might as well make the best out of whatever they’d gotten themselves into. 

For all intents and purposes, across from me is the love of my life; my best friend from childhood. They’re the only one who showed up. And they’re going to break my heart all over again. 

3. The Soup And Salad Appetizer Always Pairs Best… 

We fall back into rhythm quickly, which shouldn’t be a surprise from a childhood lover. The small talk doesn’t last long, but neither of us are disturbed by it. It’s rather gratifying, how we skip pleasantries and jump straight to the meat of the matter—openly tearing apart the tumultuous history of our entire relationship as a fun, twisted type of dinner entertainment. This has always been our favorite pastime. True analysis, we believed, could only be achieved through rigid distance and observation. 

We were good at that. 

I’ve always avoided people from my past with a sort of fervor. There are two variables that are always constant: (x) yourself and (y) your past. When together, they are always true. I can go skydiving, fall in love with five new people, compulsively change my major, live in a different country, speak new tongues—it doesn't matter. In my childhood kitchen, I’m stagnant and fixed. I’m not me anymore. I’m a moody thirteen year old who ignores my dad’s breakfast and hates mornings. I’m an ecstatic five year old who loves the sun and hides behind my mom’s skirt when the toaster pops. I’m never who I’m supposed to be. In an environment of the past, you’re the sum of all parts. Nobody likes that. It’s too overwhelming. It’s easier to divide and dissect. Divide and dissect, until you are bite-sized and palatable once more. 

Let’s go back to when we were younger. I’m eleven years old, uncertain and overly self-conscious; too scared to stand up in front of the class to sharpen my pencil. You’re twelve and you’re yet to develop a sense of personal space. When you get excited you nudge me with your elbow, and when we walk home together you scrape the back of my ankle. There are still faint bruises. Maybe that’s what home is. Maybe home is everything that remains.

Let’s divide and dissect— When did you realize we were doomed? 

You grin. I don’t even have to translate. We’re the same age. 

4. For The Main Course We Have… 

You tut to me about how I’ve never really changed, chiding about how unnecessarily dramatic I can make something out of nothing. 

When I realized I couldn’t save you. 

You take a drink, looking at me with lively eyes, as though to say Your Turn. 

My brain reels at that. I feel like I’m thirteen and my crush (y, you) has just looked back at me for the first time. Different parts of my brain flicker on and off, malfunctioning. 

What made me so suddenly undeserving? 

I’m waiting for you to reference a moment in which I displayed a sense of sociopathy in our youth. Maybe I drowned frogs without remembering as a deranged toddler. I could have been a better partner in our fifth grade science project. I know I should’ve given you more than just half my sandwich when you forgot your lunch that one time in kindergarten. 

It’s not a matter of deserving. It’s a matter of needing. Nobody deserves to be saved. You save someone because they need to be. Therefore, you needed to be saved. 

Ah, perfect explanation. If A equals B, and B equals C, then A equals C. 

You wanted to save me. 

No. I needed to. I needed you to be saved. I needed to save you. Or at the very least, try. It was the only way I could save myself. 

You say this as though you’re stating the weather or telling me the time. Like this isn’t the plainest, most heart-wrenching confession I’ve ever been given. 

We eat the rest of our meal in silence. 

5. May I Interest You In Our Dessert Menu? 

For a moment we joke about pretending it’s one of our birthdays for a free slice of cake, but decide against it. We’re both cowards. We split a pint of ice cream instead and suddenly we’re five years old again, sitting on your porch, ice cream trickling down our chins. Everything is sinfully simple. Spoon. Bowl. Mouth. You. 

I’m looking at you. Can you hear me? 

6. Check, Please. 

You’re walking me to my car, toothpick poking out your mouth. I wish you left your jacket in the restaurant so we’d have to go back. Ask me for a tissue. Or for the time. Talk to me about the weather. God, please, anything. 

It’s not too late. It’s not too late. It’s not too late. 

It’s not too late. It’s not too late. It’s not too late. 

It’s not too late. It’s not too late. It’s not too late. 

I can be saved. 

I can be saved. 

I can be saved. 

I can be saved. 

I can be saved. 

I can be saved. 

Gabby De Guzman is a high school student. When she's not crying over her neverending pile of homework, she's writing about her feelings and posting it on the internet. She can be found on Twitter @deguzwrites.