there's a house across the street. people have come and gone.
i knew a girl once. she had long hair, a favourite dress, and nine barbies. she didn't have a ken, and i remember her saying she didn't want one because then all her dolls couldn't share clothes. she'd feel bad for ken, sitting there in one shirt and pants and shoes.
she used to be clumsy. she came home every evening with scraped knees and torn leggings, and hair pulled out of ponytails with the rubber band nowhere to be found.
she used to dance, putting on music on her mother's old ipod and hopping around the room. there were videos of her dancing like that, grinning widely and laughing loud. nobody ever told her it wasn't okay to be weird. because it wasn't.
she did ballet for some months. she made friends in class, knew other pretty girls with their tutus and perfect plies. she dropped the class later. maybe she didn't like the teacher, or the lost time, or the pressure. maybe she just wasn't a fan of the colour pink.
she wasn't a big fan of wasted space, either. ...i wonder what she'd think of me now.
we lost touch, over the years. she moved away when i was a teen, but she still comes here sometimes on holidays. we catch up, and she tells me about the girls she thinks are pretty and the way her best friend's eyes light up when she watches a show she likes.
she's still got long hair, but now it's long enough to reach her back. if she cut off an inch, nobody would even notice, that's how long it is. she asks me to style it sometimes, and all i do is braid it out of habit. it looks pretty, but the other day when i looked at a picture of her i had to pause a second before i recognised who it was.
if she never visited again, i think i could forget her.
i don't think i'd ever forgive myself if i did. forget her, that is.
i know a boy. he only moved here recently, taking the house the girl left behind. he says he used to read but he stopped. he says he has a lot of friends, but i've never seen them at his door. i think he's full of shit.
one day, i let the girl and the boy meet. the boy accidentally ran off with her. at least, i think it was by mistake. i'm sure they never meant to leave me here.
this boy, he has short hair and wears pink shirts sometimes. his favourite colour is green, like the grass in his garden. he wears jeans and trims his hair every few months, when it starts to skate at his shoulders.
sometimes, i think i know him, whom i have known for a much shorter time, more than the girl. i think she'd be mad at me for that.
sometimes, the boy is angry. i don't know at what. i think he's angry at me. i get angry at him, too, so it's fine. i wish he would leave like the girl did, but lets the girl come back. i wish he stays forever and bars the girl from ever returning.
if i could, i'd forget him. i think he would want me to forget him, too. but i can't. he lives in the house i see every day, and i know he's there.
it's fine. i don't think i could ever forget him. if i did, i don't think the girl would forgive me for that, either. she's always been too kind for her own good.
sometimes i think she's known him for longer than i have. maybe they were friends, pen-pals. maybe they were cosmically connected because they lived in the same house across the street.