By Avery, TIWP Student

The first thing Eli said when I opened the door was, “You still hate mornings?”

I stared at him. He grinned. It was the same crooked grin I remembered from when we were ten, when he used to steal the last blue popsicle from my freezer and blame it on the dog, except his gap-tooth had disappeared.

“Eli?”

“That’s usually my name.” For a few seconds, neither of us moved.

He looked older, obviously. Taller. His hair was darker than I remembered, falling over his forehead in the exact way I’d spent years telling him to fix. But his icy-blue eyes remained the same. I laughed. Nothing was funny, but I didn’t know what else to do.

“You’re here.”

“Seemingly so.”

“Where’ve you been?”

He shrugged. “Busy, I guess.” I wanted to be angry. Twelve years was a long time to disappear without explanation. Instead, I stepped aside.

“Come in.”

He shook his head mischievously. “Nah. We’ve got places to be.”

“Where?”

He smiled. “You’ll remember.”

We went to the diner first. It was strange how little it had changed, the same cracked red booths, the same black napkin holders, rusted silverware, hell, even the same old waitress who had probably been working there since before we were born. Eli slid into the bench across from me.

“Chocolate?” He asked, referring to the milkshakes.

“Obviously.”

“Two cherries?”

“One each.” I smiled at the memory.

“You always took both.”

“I did not.”

Eli raised an eyebrow cautiously. “You absolutely did.”

I laughed. He looked at me for a moment.

“What? I’ve got something on my face.”

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring!” I teased.

“Just haven’t seen you in a while.”

The smile disappeared from my face, and I looked down at the menu.

“Yeah.” Neither of us said anything after that.

When the milkshake came, Eli was quick to steal my cherry.

“How dare you!” I gasped, pressing a hand to my chest with dramatic flair. He flashed a quick grin.
“Too slow!”

“So you’re still a thief,” I said, crossing my arms.

“You’re still dramatic.”

“You’re still annoying.”

“You missed me.”

“Not at all,” I said, tossing him a playful scowl.

“Yeah. I missed you too, Nells.” He smiled back.

I smiled to myself. Nells. That damn nickname I once hated, the one only he called me.

After breakfast, we walked to our old elementary school. The playground seemed bigger in my memory. The slide we’d once thought was enormous barely reached my shoulders. The play structure looked like something designed for toddlers. Eli climbed onto it anyway. With his large frame, he looked like an elephant riding a bicycle.

He glanced back. “Race you.”

“Eli, you’re twenty-two; you’re far too grown for this.”

“And?” He asked. I sighed, fighting back the small smirk that threatened to escape my lips, and climbed up after him. We raced across the bars like we were ten again, laughing so hard that my stomach hurt. For a little while, I’d forgotten that we’d grown up. Forgotten that he’d been a stranger these past years. I forgot everything except the sweet sound of him laughing beside me. When we reached the top, he sat down.

“Member when you broke your arm here?”

“You pushed me.”

“I did not.”

“You totally did.”

“Nuh uh, you fell.”

“Because you pushed me.”

He laughed. I laughed too. Then he looked at me, as if he were studying my eyes.

“You remember everything.”

“Of course I do,” I replied, tilting my head back to admire the bright afternoon sky. His smile faded slightly.

“Everything?”

I nodded. “Everything.”

We spent the afternoon doing things we hadn’t done since we were children. We visited the candy shop we went to every Friday, finally buying our favorite candy after years of secretly pocketing it. We walked along the creek, skipping rocks and arguing over who could throw farther. Eli won. He usually did. At sunset, we sat on the old bridge. The sky had turned orange above the trees. I leaned back against the railing.

“This was a good day.”

“The best.”

“I wish we could do this every year.”

Eli looked at me. “We did.”

I frowned. “What?”

“Nothing.” He looked away. I watched the water ripple beneath us.

“Where’d you go?”

He didn’t answer.

“Eli.” The water seemed to slow down below the bridge.

“I looked for you,” I said. “For years.”

“I know.”

“I thought you hated me.”

“I never hated you.” He replied softly.

“Then why’d you leave?”

He went quiet, then said, “You told me to.”

I stared at him. “I never told you to leave.”

His expression softened. “You did.”

I shook my head. “No way.”

He looked toward the other side of the bridge. “Think about it.”

And suddenly, I did. The memory came back in pieces. That red bicycle on the wet pavement.
Eli was laughing, I was yelling, the smell of rain surrounding us. The old bridge. My hand pushed against his shoulder. Not hard, not enough to hurt. But just enough to make him stumble. I remembered teasing, “Bet you won’t go further.” I remembered him climbing over the railing. I remembered laughing. I remembered him turning around. But the look on his face—not fear, but surprise—and then, nothing.

I closed my eyes, forcing myself out of the memory. “No.” Eli didn’t say anything.
“No,” I repeated. Everything in front of me disappeared, the bridge, the creek, the sunset.

Suddenly I was ten again, standing at the edge of the bridge, screaming his name. Someone was pulling me away, holding me back. My mother was crying; his mother was crying. There were police. Even though there were people everywhere, Eli was missing.

There had never been another version of the story. He hadn’t disappeared, hadn’t moved away, hadn’t forgotten me. He had fallen. And I had spent the last twelve years forgetting how.

When I opened my eyes, Eli was still beside me. But something had changed. He looked exactly the way I remembered him, that day on the bridge. He was ten years old again, wearing his favorite baby-blue shirt, a scraped knee, and that infamous crooked smile. I looked down at my hands, and I was holding something. A photograph. Eli and I stood in front of the playground. Except I was the only person in it. My stomach dropped.

“You’re not really here, huh.”

“I know.”
I looked at him, tears filling my eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” He smiled sadly.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

“I was just trying to—”

“I know.”

My voice broke.

“I should’ve saved you.”

He shook his head.

“You were only ten.”

“But I pushed you.”

“You were ten.”

“So were you.” I cried then—really cried. The crying I’d avoided for twelve years. Eli sat beside me quietly. For a moment, I felt his shoulder against mine, just like when we were children.

“You know, you don’t have to keep coming back here,” he said.

“I don’t want to forget you.” I sniffled, wiping my eyes with my shirt.

“You won’t.”

“How do you know?”

He smiled. “You remember everything.”

I laughed through my tears. “You’re still annoying.”

“I know.” He said, playfully bumping my shoulder. The sun was almost gone.

Eli stood up, checking his watch. “I should go.”

Panic rose in my chest. “No.”

He smiled. “You’ll be okay.”

“Please don’t leave me.”

“I already did.” And this time, I understood. I watched him saunter toward the trees. For a second, I thought I could run after him, but I didn’t. I just sat there and watched until there was nothing left to see. The photograph was still in my hand, so I turned it over. On the back, in my ten-year-old handwriting, were four words:

Come back here tomorrow.

I smiled. Then I cried again. The next morning, I went home, but for the first time in twelve years, I didn’t look back.