When old friends meet, the present version of us quietly steps aside.
We slip back into the age we were, the way we laughed, the way we tilted our heads, the rhythm of how we spoke.
All the pieces of my past I thought I had lost are somehow perfectly stored in the other person. Like they froze a part of my youth and kept it safe for years.
We’re the keepers of each other. You remember my eighteen, I remember your twenty-two. The “old selves” we thought had faded were actually alive in someone else’s memory.
And the moment we meet, our youth thaws back into color.