The smell of fabric softener. Your socks and my Sesame Street yellow t-shirt lying scattered on the black and white checkerboard linoleum floor. The memories of you and I, with our backs to the cabinets, in this very room. The laundry - Our little hideout. The place sounds like comfort. It feels like us. Our scent in our clothes.

I look out the window. The bougainvillaea I forced you to plant years ago. It's still overflowing with the same papery red flowers, do you see it? The corner of the backyard where we buried those parts of ourselves. You'd walk out in the middle of the night to go check on them, return with tears. The birds that we used to feed together.

The fears I overcame while I told you stories. The mud we used to play in, the insects that fell in our hair while your elbows gently collided with mine. The day I got my nose pierced. The invisibility of time, of worry, of everyone else. Brand new and special.

The gun in the back of your closet has been crossing my mind. It sits there unused. Brand new and special. We are weak and selfish people. We've closed all doors. Closed our hearts. We've conveniently lost faith. Dismissed hope.

The floor is wet. My hands smell like detergent. No matter how many times I wash these things, they stay the same. I guess it's impossible to lose some things.

I once knew a boy. In the first conversation we ever had, he told me stop living in the past.