'You've grown up well,' she says, pulling fingers through tangled gold, and time was you knew those waves like a sailor knows the sea. She still looks at you with those same eyes that can never decide between blue and green, and you used to think they looked like the ocean, because you alone could see the turbulence underneath the calm surface. You knew every shade of her eyes; in the dark, and when the light hit them, and when she wore different colours, when she was happy or sad or angry, and after all this time they are still so familiar. Her smile is not happy, it's uncomfortable, so you search your mind for the right thing to say. You know her favourite jokes and everything she's passionate about, because she used to keep you up late texting you stories about the shows she wanted you to watch, and the new poems she had written. You never told her you memorized their words, and you think about them even now, but you know they are not meant for you anymore. No matter what she told you, you knew that she was never yours, because you loved her like a sailor loves the sea. It was clear she'd keep moving from one shore to another, which wasn't to say she hadn't loved you, but you alone could see her always moving towards something better. She had left you behind once, but now she is in front of you, and you don't know what to say. For a moment you almost selfishly want her back, but the oceans in her eyes remind you: She isn't yours. Someone else will run their hands through her hair and learn to tease out the tangles. Someone else will know when she gets lost in thought by the look in her eyes, and she will write them poems in the middle of the night, and burst out laughing when she teaches them her favourite jokes. 'You've grown up well,' she says. 'You and me both,' you reply, but you still know her like a sailor knows the sea.
